Commitment Issues
by The Cheshire Riddler
Summary: Freddie’s trying to propose to a girl who has told him "I love you" only five times. Seddie. Canon post-show.
1. Searching

**Author's Note:** This is a series of short one-shots depicting the story of Freddie proposing to Sam. Freddie and Sam have already been together for six years, ever since halfway through college. They are in their late twenties and living together before this story starts.

**Warning: **There will be some language and things implied, but nothing graphic. I don't own these characters.

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_Searching _

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Freddie is going to propose to Sam.

It has been years since they have started dating, six years almost exactly, because Freddie is a dork who counts the days and remembers all of their anniversaries. Sam refuses to say they're dating out loud. She has an instinctive fear of commitments, after watching her mother and father split up in her childhood. Freddie understands and accepts it. He wouldn't have been with Sam for long if he hadn't been willing to learn and live with her little quirks. He could do without the physical violence, but Sam has calmed down some since their teenage years. It helps that Freddie is now much taller and stronger than her.

He wants to settle down. The years have shown him he wants no one else but Sam. He cannot imagine living without her. So Freddie calls Carly and they go to a jewelry store. Freddie isn't sure what to get Sam. She doesn't like "girly things" and refuses to wear most jewelry. She barely wears make up, something Freddie loves. He feels that she looks so much prettier without it. Freddie looks at the rings and his confidence wavers. If Sam will not even admit they are dating, why would she agree to become engaged to him?

But Carly insists that Sam loves him too (Freddie has only heard Sam mumble it occasionally, while he says it everyday at least, and most of those times she had been eating ham; so she could have been talking to the meat) and tells Freddie he should get Sam something simple, nothing decadent. Freddie has a steady, well-paying job. He co-owns a computer company not unlike Pear. His reputation is rising in the industry and he is gaining more connections and support. He interprets the stock market expertly, and could easily afford any of the rings in the display.

He hesitates. Doubts and fears plague him, digging at him, distracting him. Freddie observes every ring and the employee tries to help him. Two hours pass by and even Carly is beginning to get disheartened. No ring for Sam has magically appeared, and the other rings are far too gaudy for Sam to wear.

Freddie muses out loud, saying he should just get a ring for twenty-five cents at the machines in the grocery store and be done with it all. "It's not like Sam's going to say yes, anyway." He mutters miserably to himself.

Carly smacks his shoulder in reply.

"This is important," she tells him, not for the first time that day. "This is Sam."

"Sam," Freddie mutters, shaking his head. He runs a hand through his hair—it's longer than he likes it, starting to get shaggy. Sam loves it, though, even though she has never told him so. She has her hands in his hair at every opportunity when it's this long. So Freddie keeps his hair long, because Sam running her hands through his hair is soothing. He would do anything for Sam.

'Anything' includes spending five hours combing through every jewelry store in town looking for a ring; Carly has to go and meet her own boyfriend after the third hour. Freddie has no experience shopping for jewelry. He doesn't want to call his mom, but he gets desperate after the twenty-third jewelry store failure. He calls his mom and she is there in ten minutes, taking his hand and leading him into a quiet, small jewelry store just on the edge of town.

Freddie has never been so glad to have his mom with him in his life. She directs the employee around expertly, describing Sam and then all of the rings Sam would not like. The employee immediately brings out a case from the back.

"Rings for girls who don't like rings," the employee says to Freddie with a friendly smile. The employee opens the case and Freddie's mom gasps.

Freddie himself is too busy gaping to notice his mom's reaction. His eyes are studying the five rings before him, a Christmas carol echoing in the back of his head distantly. He looks at each one. His gaze rests on the middle one and it stays there. The ring is understated, beautiful in its simplicity. It is a silver band with a small design of tiny, tiny diamonds etched in its side. The ring catches the light and throws beams of rainbows around. Sam's oversized sleeves would probably cover it up anyway. The ring is absolutely perfect and worth all of the trouble. Freddie reaches out and picks the ring up, even though it's probably against store protocol. Living with Sam has cured him of his habit of following and caring about stupid rules.

He holds onto the ring protectively when his mom goes to take it from him. His fingers curl around it and he steps back, watching his mom warily. He knows he's attacking like that goblin from Lord of the Rings, whose name he can't even remember because he's so focused on the ring, but Freddie doesn't care. He will pay whatever price because this is the ring for Sam. It's the one that will fit, the one that will turn her into Cinderella, the one that will make her consider marrying Freddie and committing herself to him.

"Honey," his mom says gently, smiling lovingly at him. "You need to give the ring to Mr. Richardson so he can wrap it up."

Freddie numbly turns to the employee and hands the ring over. He stares as the man puts the ring in a box and carefully puts that box in a nice, expensive-looking bag. Mr. Richardson asks how Freddie will be paying. Freddie hands over his credit card and has never felt happier paying for something.

He usually spends his huge salary on computers and electronic things and fencing equipment and rent. Sam spends his money on food and clothes and movies and worthless junk. She works as a free-lance comedian and is looking into getting her own steady show in the city. Freddie supports her and as much as Sam whines about it, she likes being taken care of; or so Freddie hopes. Because Freddie is more than happy to take care of Sam. She is fierce and independent and her own woman and just maybe this ring will convince her that she can be Freddie's woman without loosing herself.

Freddie walks out of the jewelry store with a ring in a bag, his mom holding his hand, Carly calling his phone, and Sam on his mind.


	2. Hiding

_Hiding _

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Freddie arrives home—which is a spacious apartment downtown with a spectacular view of the city—and it is empty of other people for the moment. He enters into the kitchen.

The kitchen is spotless, because it is Freddie's domain. Sam cannot cook to save her life and could happily survive off of Fatty Cakes; so it falls onto Freddie to cook them healthy, wholesome meals. Sam says that makes him the woman in their relationship. Freddie then proves to Sam that he is indeed the man, though he does secretly agree. He acts more like a woman than Sam, who still refuses to wear skirts or dresses unless the situation is dire indeed. Freddie can picture her wearing a tuxedo to their wedding—if they have a wedding.

Freddie brushes those thoughts away and sets his keys and the bag on the island. He will not worry about hiding the ring yet, because Sam is out at a meeting until the evening. She is hashing out the final details of her show. Freddie feels sorry for her manager, Rhonda, for having to put up with Sam and having to get other people to put up with Sam, too. Then again, Freddie puts up with Sam and loves it. Freddie faze is drawn to the bag innocently sitting on the counter. After all, he wants to put up with Sam for the rest of his life.

He walks into the living room. The TV there takes up the whole wall; it is state of the art and Freddie's pride and joy. He notices a grease stain on the screen, no doubt from Sam pelting the TV with buttery popcorn, as she is prone to do when one of her movies isn't going the way she wants it to. Next to the TV, there is a huge bookshelf filled with movies.

There is no order to the bookshelf. _Independence Day _sits next to _the Patriot_. _Galaxy Wars_, the entire series, isn't anywhere on the bookshelf. Freddie has been looking for it for weeks. He looks over the movies again, half of which are horror movies, and has a feeling his favorite sci-fi series disappearing has to do with the passing comment he made about the female lead in them. Freddie had been watching the third movie while Sam had pretended not to be watching them, when Freddie sighed and said, "Pat-may is so hot."

Sam then proceeded to throw popcorn at him, and Freddie had thought that had ended matters—apparently not, because his collector's edition poster of Pat-may, which hung proudly in his home office, had mysteriously acquired a rather fetching mustache and goatee. And he can't find any of his _Galaxy Wars _movies.

As for all of the horror movies, Freddie hates them, but Sam lives for them. She enjoys gore and there is an entire row of _Friday the Thirteenth _movies, up to the latest one. Freddie hides his face in Sam's shoulder when things get a little too graphic for him. Sam laughs at him and calls him a girl, but puts her arm around him comfortingly.

Freddie's favorite movies are science fiction. Stephen King is middle-ground for them, so there are some of his movies. The _It _DVD has grown worn from countless watching. _Alien_ and _Predator _have also been used over and over and over again_. _But a good two rows are filled with Freddie's movies. He eyes _Sunshine _and _I, Robot _with satisfaction. There's _Serenity _and the whole first season of _Firefly _somewhere in the mess of movies. Freddie doesn't know how he and Sam have managed to collect so many movies.

It seems like every other night they curl up on the couch, Sam with a big bowl of popcorn or some other junk food, Freddie with his laptop. He uses his laptop when he and Sam argue about a point in the movie or an actor. Usually, Freddie is right most of the time about special effects and plot holes, though Sam has an uncanny ability to remember what other films actors and actresses have been in. Sometimes Freddie pauses the movie as they debate, sometimes he forgets. They rewind it anyways, and later start another argument. Arguing is the central point of their relationship; it has been since the very start of their friendship.

Freddie notices the answering machine is glowing, so he meanders over and presses the button. A mechanical voice informs him he has two new messages and plays the first, from half an hour ago.

"Hey, Freddork," Sam's voice says.

Freddie smiles and shakes his head. Even after so long, Sam still refers to him with her insulting nicknames. Now, however, Freddie feels they are more pet names. The bite has long since been taken out of them.

"I'm going into my meeting now." There is a muffled quality to Sam's voice, which Freddie recognizes as her talking while eating. He can hear Rhonda's voice in the background, telling Sam something. Sam shouts, "Keep your pants on, Ronny! I'm coming, I'm coming."

Freddie leans against the wall next to the answering machine, listening.

"These stuffed suits aren't gonna know what hit him." Sam chuckles forebodingly and Freddie almost feels bad for them. Almost. Then Sam adds, "This might take awhile. Not the meeting. That'll be a piece of cake. But I'm making those guys take Ronny and me out for drinks afterwards. Ronny needs to get out more," Sam stage-whispers.

"Sam!" 'Ronny' screeches in the background. "I _can _hear you. And we're late! Say goodbye to your husband and let's go!"

"He's not my husband," Sam yells back, but she doesn't say what Freddie actually is. They're more than dating, especially after six years. "So don't wait up, Fredward. Catch you later." The message ends and there is a mechanical voice asking Freddie if he would like to delete it.

Freddie's grin fades. People always assume he and Sam are married. They live together. The way they act shows that they've known each other for a long time. He takes care of Sam and doesn't hide his affection for her. Sam punches him on the shoulder, calls him names, and pushes him around. People don't take this as her showing affection at first. They think Freddie is pining after an unrequited love at first. But once people got to know Sam they realize she does care about Freddie, in her own special, weird, Sam-way.

But Freddie isn't sure if Sam _loves_ him.

The ridiculousness of the situation hits him. He's planning on proposing to a woman who might not even love—might not even say yes. Sam has said "I love you" to Freddie a grand total of five times; five times where it had counted, anyway. Freddie doesn't count the times where he brings her food or she's basking in an after-glow. Freddie says it all the time and Sam responds by rolling her eyes or smacking him upside the head. Freddie wonders what's so hard about admitting you love someone, especially someone who loves you back.

Freddie deletes the message and mentally cancels his plan of watching a movie with Sam. She would be getting home far too late for a movie, probably drunk and exhausted. Freddie shoves his hands in his pockets and straightens up as the answering machine spits out the last message.

"Hey, Freddie, this is Lars. We're having some problems with the HTML of the new system's website," a man's voice says, his tone regretful. "Could you maybe come in? I know you got off early, but we really need your help. It shouldn't take that long…so, just, head over if you can." There is a beep, signaling the end of the message.

Freddie deletes this message too and exhales heavily. This is not how he had planned to spend his Friday night, but he supposes this is better than waiting around for Sam to come home. Freddie walks into the kitchen, already texting his co-worker back, and stops in his tracks when he sees the jewelry store bag on the counter.

Freddie desperately tries to think of somewhere to hide it where Sam will not run across it. She frequently searches the apartment for Freddie's stashes of Fatty Cakes—because she's gotten him addicted too, and if he doesn't hide them, she'll eat them all—so all of his normal hiding places are out.

He curses, wishing he had thought to have his mom hold onto it, or even Carly. Freddie pulls the small velvet box out of the bag. He hurries over to the trashcan and shoves the bag down to the bottom of the trash. After washing his hands, Freddie exits the apartment. He decides that keeping the ring with him is the best place for it now. He doesn't trust himself to find a truly safe hiding place. Even if Sam gets home after him, Freddie doesn't want to take any chances. This is one thing he will not mess up.

If he's going to propose to Sam, he will do it the right way.

Freddie gets into his shiny black Prius, starts the engine, and drives off back to work. There is a single ratty orange flip-flop and an empty cup from Groovy Smoothie in the shotgun seat; left there by the woman who is to be offered the ring that lies in the velvet box in Freddie's sweatshirt pocket.


	3. Working

_Working_

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Freddie turns off his car and pulls the keys out of the ignition. He drops them into his pocket—beside the small velvet box that he tries not to think about—and begins to open the door.

He pauses though, gaze draw to the smiley face with mustache drawn on the corner of the window. It is dark blue and done in Sharpie by none other than Sam, who had snatched the marker from Carly and had spent the whole day drawing on every available surface. Including Freddie's forehead, which had made him quite angry and had taken forever to get off. He had spent hours in the bathroom, all because he understandably didn't want to walk around with "NUB" on his forehead for all to see.

Sam had found it all very hilarious, until Freddie had gotten here elbow with a pink Sharpie of his own. The resulting Sharpie fight had causalities of two outfits, a dinner plate with too much graffiti on it because it had been improperly used as an impromptu shield, a torn bunny slipper, a snapped toothbrush, and a thoroughly drawn on couch that had had to be replaced.

Then Freddie abruptly cuts off his thoughts and jumps out of the car, slamming the door shut with a little more force than necessary. When had all of his thoughts begun to center around Sam? She is important to him, but Freddie doesn't need to think about her all the time. He loves her, but she…Freddie stops thinking. He enters the building and nods to the guard, who waves back. Freddie enters the elevator and allows himself to think: _at least Sam's never been here. _Sam is allergic to work, whether her own or someone else's. And she is bored by Freddie's "geek city" job.

Finally the elevator pauses on his floor, the highest, and Freddie steps out. He barges into the offices of his company, looking around.

Most of the offices are already dark, but there are a few at the end light up brightly. He can hear the sound of voices and light laughter. Freddie heads over there. He passes by his own office, which is dark. He pauses, spotting the picture of Sam, Carly, and Spencer on his desk. Barely visible in the bottom right hand corner is the photographer's finger. Freddie smiles; he had taken that picture last year, the day they finally got to meet Socko. It had been a momentous occasion, one Freddie had been determined to document. They had also done an iCarly piece on it. Socko had vehemently refused to be in the picture, saying something about tourists and a dancing lemur.

As Freddie arrives in the doorway of one of the offices in use, he instantly sees his partner and fellow co-owner of their company: Neville. The boy had calmed down after several therapy sessions when they had been younger. Neville had apparently realized he had not wanted to destroy iCarly; he had wanted to _join _it. After explaining this many times to a skeptical Freddie and Carly, and an angry Sam, they had allowed him to help out a few times.

He and Freddie had bonded somewhat over technology, and that is where it all originated. Well-matched in the basics, they had discovered that Neville is truly gifted at computer programming, while Freddie is the one with the head for business. Together with their skills at all things computers, they have created their expanding company; which Freddie and Neville have named "Fred-ville".

Neville is sitting at his desk, head in his hands, muttering to himself. There is a standard company computer at the desk, and Neville has his personal work laptop in front of him. There are also official looking document, one of which Neville is reading.

Neville had given up on his fixation on Carly soon after Freddie, many years ago. Neville is now seriously dating an Asian woman from a rival company. She is to inherit the company from her father in a few years. Despite this obstacle, Neville and she have managed to keep steadily dating. Her knowledge of computers falls more along the lines of hard drives and business, but she keeps up with Neville. Freddie thinks they are a very good match.

Lars, the employee who called Freddie, is seated on the ground of the large office, three laptops spread around him. He is biting his thumbnail worriedly, staring avidly at the screen of a laptop. Freddie stands in the doorway and watches as a seemingly random series of numbers and letters spills across the laptop Lars is watching. Lars is a nice guy, if somewhat scatterbrained and prone to panic. He is a graphic design wizard and has handled all Fred-ville websites.

Standing in the corner, talking quietly into his phone, is none other than Shane. He is the CFO—Chief Financial Officer—of their company. He is happily married with two children, to an Australian woman who broke three major rugby records in her career; before a shattered collarbone benched her permanently. Freddie met her at a company Christmas party two years ago. Her handshake had given him bruises. Shane's wife is determined, strong, and coaches an all-star rugby team in a city an hour away, where their family lives.

These three are the core of the company, along with Freddie. He and Neville are the CEOs. It pays well, better now that Fred-ville is really kicking off, but Freddie hates having to deal with some of their investors. He loves creating now gadgets and applications for computers though. There are good and bad aspects to his job, and Freddie wouldn't have it any other way. If his job had been easy he wouldn't feel challenged.

"Alright guys," Freddie says, walking inside the office. He leaves the door open. There isn't anyone else in the office to close the door on anyway. "What seems to be the problem?"

All three start talking at once.

"These legal documents—" Neville groans, rubbing his temples to ward off a headache.

Lars raises his voice to be heard, "—code isn't behaving—"

"—the advertising agency—" Shane says darkly.

"—I need your help," all three men finish at the same time. They blink in surprise and look at each other.

Freddie laughs. He can't help it.

The four of them help the others out constantly. Their company would have crashed and burned long ago if they hadn't. Fred-ville is a giant project. Freddie has devoted as much time as Sam allows him to making Fred-ville grow. Everything is kicking off and the "easy years", as Shane joking calls them, are coming soon. They are hiring more people and things will be easier and less hectic in a few years. Freddie looks forward to it. But for now, he enjoys these late night projects.

Freddie claps his hands and grins determinedly.

"Let's get started, then," he announces, and they all three immediately start clambering for his help. Freddie is the go-to guy, good at helping solve other people's problems (_but not his own, _a distant part of his mind whispers, Sam's face and the ring appearing in his mind, and he shoves it away).

As he goes over to a frantic looking Lars, Freddie idly wonders if he should text or leave Sam a message to tell her where he is, just in case she arrives home earlier than him. But then the code seemingly disappears from Lars' laptop and Freddie is caught up by work. Sam probably won't care anyway, he tells himself, and almost believes it.

There are sixes dancing a mamba energetically around Lars' laptop screen, a four gone rogue, a duo of eights that are intent on fighting with some twos, and a ten that is determined to steal the spotlight; Freddie has his work cut out for him.


	4. Watching

_Watching _

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Freddie pushes the door to the apartment open wearily. It is almost four in the morning; he, Neville, Lars, and Shane had managed to complete most of their work. Freddie is looking forward to a blissful weekend free of work before it all repeats again on Monday.

_The joys of being an adult_, Freddie thinks to himself, even though he is only twenty-six and that is plenty young enough according to Spencer.

Freddie stumbles into the kitchen, scouring the fridge for a late night snack. He is ravenous and would even choke down one of Sam's horrible sugar-and-fat snacks. Freddie instead grabs a soda and a bowl of watermelon. He heads over to the kitchen island and settles down, yawning sleepily. He realizes he does not have a fork too late and is too tired to fetch one. So he eats with his fingers, something that normally would have repulsed him. Freddie mechanically eats half of the bowl before he hears it.

"_Duke…I am…your uncle!" _a raspy voice declares.

Freddie blinks, wondering if he is more tired than he originally thought. Because he swears he's hearing _Galaxy Wars_. Abandoning the bowl and grabbing his soda, Freddie shuffles into the living room.

The TV is on, its bright picture reflecting off of the glass doors that lead to a balcony, a perk of living on the seventh floor. Freddie's jaw drops slightly at the sight before him. The top of Sam's head peeks over the edge of the couch. He cannot believe it. This has to be a dream. Sam would never willingly watch _Galaxy Wars_.

Freddie has to bribe her and threaten her with no bed-sharing—of the two he is the more with more restraint, big surprise—for days before Sam usually gives in. He has resorted to giving Sam the silent treatment to get her to watch it with him. Freddie is standing in front of the couch, blocking Sam's view of the TV before he realizes it.

"Sam?" He whispers. His soda is cold and his fingers are icy, but he doesn't make any move to sit down next to Sam on the couch and set his soda down on the low coffee table. He is standing in front of the coffee table, his knees brushing up against the wood. "What are you doing?"

Freddie wants to know what she is doing home, what she is doing watching _Galaxy Wars_, and what she is wearing; because she is clad in his national fencing championship shirt and his sweat pants, both of which are too big on her. She looks adorable, though she would punch Freddie for saying so, and he gets a slight thrill from watching her wear _his _clothes. It's almost like a mark of ownership, except for Sam's completely her own person. Freddie suddenly notices something else. She is also clutching a big, neon orange stuffed octopus Freddie won for her senior year at a cheap carnival.

Freddie had not even known she still had that octopus toy. He had forgotten about it. After that night, they had come home and it had mysteriously disappeared. Freddie hadn't thought to ask about it. He had assumed Sam had thrown it out.

Knowing she had kept it all this time…Freddie feels a warm sensation flood through his chest and he smiles tenderly down at Sam. "Sorry," he apologizes. "The guys called me down to the office. There were some things we needed to fix."

She is fighting to keep her eyes open, he can tell, but she still manages to look up at him and smirk cheekily. "Fredweird, you're home," she remarks casually, her voice raspy with sleep, as if she had not heard his explanation and had not been waiting up for him—because Sam is indifferent to everything but food, and doesn't care if Freddie gets home a little late.

But Freddie knows the truth, and it makes his smile a little smug.

Sam glances at the screen pointedly, where the credits are just beginning to roll. "I'd invite you to join me in watching Duke Air-runner defeat Gareth Shader, but I just don't feel like rewinding." She yawns and stretches her arms out above her head. The octopus tumbles from her lap in the process.

Freddie bends down and picks it up. He sits on the edge of the coffee table—something that would shock and appall his mother, but he hasn't lived with her for years; and yet he still feels like a rebel for doing so—and places the stuffed toy on Sam's stomach.

Her arms protectively curl up around it and she tries to distract Freddie from noticing this by saying, "I got the job. Me 'n Ronny wore them down good." A smug, proud smile curls her lips and Freddie resists the urge to kiss her.

"Congratulations," he replies sincerely. Sam needs a job, something to do to keep her busy, and Freddie is glad she is doing something she loves. Sam likes to make people laugh, and her sarcastic, tough love humor appeals to many people. Her fame from iCarly has given her a start in the comedy business, but Sam's talent has kept her there. "When are you starting?"

Sam groans, conveying that she doesn't appreciate the third-degree. But nonetheless she answers, "Two weeks, maybe. Got a trial run sometime before that." Sam looks at Freddie and rolls her eyes, knowing instantly from his look that he expects more details. Sam caves in under Freddie's gentle, pleading look and gruffly adds, "It's five days a week to start off, from five to six, and then eleven to midnight."

Freddie considers this. In his sweatshirt pocket, there is a velvet box, and he wonders. If he asks now, what will happen? They will have to wait until Sam has settled comfortably into her job. They will have to wait until Sam even agrees. So Freddie's confidence wavers and he doesn't pull the velvet box out. Instead, he smiles at Sam. "That's great." He feels like he should be using a pet name like "dear" or "honey" but knows that those words don't fit with Sam and him.

Plus, she will hit him if he ever dares to call her sweetie or something else fluffy and cute.

"You're going to like it," Freddie continues, already seeing Sam bringing a crowd to hysterics. "Everyone's going to love you." His grin stretches wider and he directs it at Sam, who turns her gaze away from him. She complains constantly that his happiness is infectious, and she doesn't like to smile more than four times a day.

"It's a job," Sam mutters, adjusting her grip on the octopus toy.

Freddie is fluent in Sam-language and reads between the lines. Sam is happy, too. She likes the idea of being employed, of doing a job that makes other people happy too. His grin goes wider. He leans over and pecks Sam on the forehead before heading into the kitchen. "You want anything?" He asks, knowing Sam is always up for food. "Or are you heading to bed?"

He pulls out a Tupperware box that had once been filled with tofu-loaf. His mom gave it to him a few days ago, knowing he had been hooked on it in high school, and Freddie has already eaten it all. Still, he opens it. He had scrubbed it clean yesterday, and the Tupperware is the perfect size.

"Naw," Sam says, and Freddie hears sounds that indicate she is standing up and walking towards their bedroom. "I'm gonna hit the sack. I'm bushed."

"Okay, night," Freddie calls back. He digs around in his pocket and removes the velvet box. "I'll be there in a little bit." There is no reply from Sam, who is probably already asleep.

Freddie carefully wraps it in a stray Low-Fat Fatty Cake wrapper—Sam detests them, saying they are unnatural and taste like sawdust; Freddie had bought them on a whim and secretly shares Sam's opinion—and places the wrapped velvet box in the Tupperware. He puts the whole thing in the freezer underneath a bag of peas. It as safe of hiding place as Freddie will get in this apartment.

He grabs a Popsicle randomly from the freezer, since he did tell Sam he is getting something eat, and tears the wrapper off. He heads over to the trashcan but pauses, staring at a cabinet drawer. It is mostly used for Freddie's stray and spare computer parts, something Sam has no interest in, but Freddie had hidden Fatty Cakes and some Choco-Blasters there from Sam. He pulls open the drawer, wondering if it is a better hiding place than the freezer, Tupperware, and Low-Fat Fatty cake wrapper.

But then he see there is nothing in the drawer save some old computer chips, a screwdriver, a shiny disc, and a purple sticky note that simply declares, "Finders keepers, nub." Freddie smiles and throws his Popsicle wrapper in the drawer before closing it and walking away to watch the ending of _Galaxy Wars _again.

He sits in the dark room, watching very fake-looking spaceships zoom around a starry dark sky, with the sound very quiet and an orange octopus toy beside him.


	5. Dreaming

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_Dreaming_

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Freddie wakes up disoriented. He blinks his eyes blearily and his dream hangs over him; he thinks that there _is _actually an evil link of German sausages intent on crushing his lungs.

Then reality crashes back and Freddie realizes that there is no link of German sausages. His dreams have never made much sense; they only got worse after he had moved in with Sam, as if her weird dreams had been infectious. Freddie tries to shift over onto his back, but there is something around his waist, restricting movement. Freddie frowns and turns his head at an angle that makes his neck protest, all so that he can see that the owner of the hands is indeed Sam, and she is fast asleep. She looks peaceful and relaxed, and Freddie smiles contentedly at her. He stays on his side, so that Sam can continue to hold onto him.

He sighs quietly and notices that their positions should be reversed. He is the "small spoon" and Sam is the "big spoon". Traditionally, the man is the big spoon. But Freddie has been dating Sam for all these years and he's learned that she rarely follows traditions. She determinedly ignores Valentine's and St. Patrick's Day (though she does pinch people not wearing green); she hates any mention of Easter—after a childhood incident involving her, a frilly dress, some eggs, a man in a rabbit costume, three other children, a foghorn, and a spork.

Sam does however love Halloween, and every year dresses up in hideous and gruesome costumes to scare the small kids who come to the door. Freddie dresses in more low-key costumes, because Sam insists he must dress up, and calms the kids down and hands out the candy. All night he fights Sam off, telling her the candy is for the kids, and she eats it anyway. Freddie has learned to have a real bowl and a decoy bowl of candy. Sam eats them both regardless, but Freddie tries.

Freddie glances at the clock. It is almost noon, and he is not surprised he has slept in. He hadn't gone to bed until around five, and that means he has only gotten seven hours of sleep. That's good enough for him, but Sam needs her full nine hours. Freddie attempts to fall back asleep, but his mind is already up and running. So he tries to work out a way to get out of bed without waking Sam; then, coming up with no working plan for that, tries to think of way to appease Sam when she does wake up. Freddie settles on making her a big breakfast. Food is the fastest way to Sam's heart, Freddie knows, and he is glad his mom made him take those mother-son cooking classes.

So he eases himself away from Sam's grip—not as easy as it sounds, especially when she is dreaming and thinks he is a bucket of fried chicken trying to get away—and eventually manages to roll off of the bed onto the floor. He freezes, afraid the dull thud he has made will cause Sam to wake up. She is vicious when woken up without proper reason or breakfast. But with a great snore, Sam rolls over on the bed, hogging all of the covers spectacularly, and Freddie is safe.

With a sigh of relief, Freddie stands up. He's where a loose shirt and his boxers. He debates briefly about putting on some sweat pants, because it's summer and the AC in the apartment is frigid; but he decides against it. Freddie's mom had never allowed him to walk around their apartment unless he was "properly, politely, and fully dressed". Freddie is still reveling in the freedom of not living with his mom, after all these years. It makes him feel like a rebel every time he does something that his mom would definitely not permit. Like turning the stove on and leaving it unattended for the moment it takes Freddie to grab a frying pan from the cabinet next to the dishwasher.

Freddie places the pan on the stove and walks over to the fridge. He'll eat two eggs, but Sam will eat five or ten depending on the mood she wakes up in. Freddie tries to remember her face. Her dreams always affect her moon without fail. Her dreams are odd, strange, and a psychiatrist's nightmare. Freddie has long since stopped trying to translate Sam's dream, every since the one with an edible Christmas tree made out of gravy, decorated with rabbit's feet and key chains, with Freddie's head at the top and gnomes in hula skirts dancing all around. Freddie wonders if the dreams are why Sam goes against the grain; why she dances to her own beat. It would certainly explain a lot.

He finishes the scrambled eggs with the ease and expertise of much practice. Freddie turns off the stove and goes to toast some bread. Whole-grain, healthy bread for him; white bread junk for Sam, who says she doesn't care if she gets fat, as long as she has her food to comfort her (Freddie believes this). Freddie has just started a pot of coffee—he takes it black, Sam dumps cups of sugar into hers—when he begins to here the sounds of Sam waking up. There are a series of loud thumps and a battle cry as Sam starts the process of untangling herself from the blankets. Freddie smiles to himself and gets two plates out. He sets them on the island, in front of two tall stools, and turns to get glasses.

He turns around and is greeted by the sight of Sam, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, blanket clutched around her like a cape. Her curly, long blonde hair is hopelessly tangled and messy. She is still half-asleep. With robotic movements, she shuffles forward and claims one of the stools as her own. Freddie watches her move, bemused. Sam is not a morning person.

"Hello, Samantha," he greets her cordially.

Sam—who never would have let him get away with her birth name if she had been fully conscious—grunts and points at the pan full of scrambled eggs. She nods her heads towards the eggs for extra measure.

Freddie rolls his eyes. "Eggs for her majesty," he announces sarcastically, going to get the pan and a wooden spoon. Sam is tired enough she lets him get away with it or doesn't notice. He comes over to her plate and dumps half of the eggs onto her plate. He pauses and Sam grunts again. He sighs and gives her three-quarters of the eggs. Sam sticks out her lips, considering the amount, and finally inclines her head. Freddie hands her a spoon and she attacks her food with gusto. He slides the rest of the eggs onto his plate.

Freddie looks at Sam for a moment, before disgust overtakes him and he turns away to get the toast. Sam doesn't have any table manners whatsoever, or if she does she never uses them. Freddie shakes his head, knowing that seeing Sam eat is enough to put off any guy. It's endearing, but Freddie has known her so long that he considers it such because he loves her and knows that shoving her face full is her way. If she ate with small, dainty bites and breathed occasionally, she wouldn't be Sam.

Still, Freddie brings the toast over and Sam's demolished her eggs and eyeing his. Freddie grins and shoves his plate towards her. He knows his toast is safe, because Sam will only eat "healthy-crappy food" when driven to desperation by fierce hunger. Freddie munches on his toast, watching as Sam polishes off his eggs and nibbles on her heavily buttered piece of toast. The coffee maker beeps and Freddie heads off, biting into his toast and holding onto it that way so his hands were free. He pours coffee into the two cups, bringing over the pot of sugar. Sam immediately grabs a cup and starts shoveling sugar into it.

Freddie sips at his, enjoying the jolt of caffeine as he wakes up fully. He doesn't mind the mornings, unlike Sam. He is awake enough to make small talk, but Sam is gulping her coffee down like she's severely dehydrated. She needs three more cups until she will be conscious enough for any talking beyond grunting. Freddie senses that Sam is still hungry, so he goes to hunt down some fruit. Sam will choke it down reluctantly, because it's early and she's hungry; and Freddie is adamant she eats _something_ healthy every once and a while.

His search for fruit brings him to the freezer, where there is an innocent Tupperware box sitting underneath a box of mango-pineapple Popsicles. His gaze is drawn to it and Freddie thinks. Sam is sitting behind him, downing her coffee unsuspectingly, wearing his clothes; Freddie wonders if this is the moment to propose. He wants to get it over with, but at the same time he wants to wait for the perfect moment. Freddie reaches, hesitating, for the Tupperware box.

Sam slams her cup down onto the island imperiously, signaling to Freddie she is done with her first cup and ready for her next. She grunts after a second, in case Freddie hasn't noticed her.

So Freddie's reaching arm grabs the Popsicle box instead.

Mango-pineapple flavored ice is almost the same as fruit, he thinks distractedly to himself, turning to grab the coffee pot, as Sam continues to tap her empty cup against the marble counter relentlessly; proposing while she is hungry, half-asleep, and in a mood is not the perfect moment. Freddie fills her cup up and pours some into his too. He puts some sugar in it as well, just for kicks. He sips at it and is surprised at how _different_ the sugar makes it. He isn't sure if he likes it or not, but it isn't bad and he doesn't stop drinking.

Sam smirks at him approvingly, then attends to her full and steaming cup, peppering it with loads of sugar, enough to keep a three year old hyper for two days; it's enough to keep Sam hyper for an hour or two, Freddie surmises.


	6. Serving

Here's a Seddie moment. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews!

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_Serving _

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Freddie is ditching the empty box of Popsicles into the trash. He and Sam had made short work of the few Popsicles in the box, as coffee and the flavored-ice had gone together surprisingly well.

He is pouring the last coffee in the pot in his cup when Sam beckons him over with a hand. Thinking she is out to steal his coffee—even though her cup is full to the brim after he had refilled it moments ago—Freddie sighs and goes over to Sam.

He sets his coffee down on the counter, waiting for Sam to reach out and claim it. Instead, she _looks _at him. Freddie internally frowns, trying to place the look. Sam has so many different looks, and Freddie is only human, can only remember so many of them. But Sam reaches out with both hands suddenly. For a moment Freddie is shocked and thinks she is going to hug him. Sam is not normally an affection person, but stranger things had occurred in the early morning, when Sam is not fully herself.

Then Sam grabs the edges of Freddie's shirt and lifts it up, smoothly taking his shirt off in such a swift mood that Freddie only realizes what has transpired when Sam slips his shirt over her own head. He gapes at her, though he really shouldn't feel surprise, especially after living with Sam for so long. Sam just smiles too innocently at him, saying in her defense only, "I was cold, Freddork. So shut it."

Freddie has learned it is better not to argue with Sam on certain matters.

As he fetches Sam another piece of toast and starts another pot of coffee, Freddie feels her eyes roving over his naked torso. Freddie tells himself he is not whipped. He knows better than to believe it though, because Sam is a force of nature and the truth is—Freddie kind of likes the satisfied, appreciative, possessive look she gives his muscular chest as she accepts a piece of toast buttered to perfection and another cup of coffee. All of that fencing has not gone to waste, and Freddie's firm washboard abs are proof.

However, Freddie does _not_ like the friendly and demeaning smack on the butt Sam gives him as he turns away. Freddie shoots her a half-felt glare, but she is already looking away, sipping at her coffee. Freddie exhales through his nose heavily and goes into their bedroom to fetch another shirt. It's partly punishment for Sam and because it is actually quite cold in their apartment; but that may just be because Freddie doesn't have a shirt. He grabs one at random, puts it on, and returns to the kitchen, where Sam has already polished off her toast and is working on his coffee. They both suffer from a relatively severe addiction to coffee, for which Freddie blames Sam, as her addiction has rubbed off on him.

Sam raises her eyebrows meaningfully, and Freddie automatically goes to re-fill their cups.

Freddie still wonders, sometimes, where his male authority has gone. Then he looks at Sam and remembers that it ran off screaming the moment Sam had appeared to return Freddie's interest and affection.

So after draining their coffee pot and making another batch, Sam and Freddie are both equally awake and sitting on the couch. Sam is draped across the couch, her feet on Freddie's lap and her head leaning against the other side of the couch. Freddie doesn't mind it; personal space and boundaries had long since disappeared between him and Sam. They are watching the morning news.

Or, rather, Freddie had turned on the morning news. Sam had sat there submissively for a full minute (a new record), before she had lunged, grabbed the remote, and turned it onto cartoons—something about a talking taco-obsessed armadillo fighting with his neighbor, a grumpy pink platypus who fancies himself an amazing photographer.

Freddie's just thankful she isn't forcing him to watch MTV. He could only stand a marathon of _Jackbutt _for so long; that show had a nasty habit of the wild stunts hurting the guys in a certain place, and sympathy pain had Freddie wincing every time a stunt ends that way.

If Freddie's acts more like the girl in some respects, Sam certainly acts more like the man. She is bossy, and Freddie complies most of the time—when she is being reasonable. He doesn't mind much, because Sam likes to lead and loves to have someone follow. Freddie will do anything for Sam. He loves her; but even if they hadn't been dating, Freddie would still do anything for her. He's more than willing to donate his kidney or shave his head or withstand a thousand insults or put up with having her steal his food.

Freddie loves Sam, after all.

Freddie does _not _love Sam's habit of not committing to anything or forgetting when she actually does.

"So, are we still on for tonight?" Freddie asks idly, watching as the animated armadillo on the screen tee-pee's his neighbor's house.

It brings back memories of being threatened by Sam into helping her vandalize Mrs. Briggs' house and several other teachers' homes and/or cars. It had always been fun, there had been a rush of adrenaline and the exhilarating feeling you get from doing something you weren't supposed to be doing.

Freddie realizes after a beat that too long of time has passed for Sam to answer. Suspicions rising, Freddie turns to Sam expectantly.

Sam _looks_ at him, face entirely too innocent and compliant. "Of course," she bluffs.

Freddie narrows his eyes at her. "What time," he says pointedly, "did we agree on again?"

Sam thinks hard for a moment. "Seven-thirty," she answers, but her tone is too questioning and she knows it. Her face crumbles into an annoyed expression and she curses under her breath.

Freddie sits up, turning to face her, and shoves her feet off of his lap. "Sam," he sighs in the way he knows Sam hates, because it makes her feel guilty. In this case, she's supposed to be feeling guilty. "I made reservations a week ago, at Burke's, for tonight. Did you forget?"

Sam doesn't say anything, but the way her eyes avoid Freddie's is answer enough.

Freddie sighs again but is determined to get past this. "Okay, well, tonight at seven." He cracks a half-smile. "You were almost right."

"Seven?" Sam bites her lip, tilting her head to the side. Freddie inwardly rolls his eyes. He loves when Sam does that and she knows it. She's doing it to suck up, and Freddie hates that it working. "I'm doing some show stuff with Ronny, but I can make it." She sticks her tongue out at Freddie. "But you're buying me the snails again. And no skimping on the bread," she orders imperiously.

Freddie chuckles. "No skimping," he agrees, and stands up.

He's still wearing his new shirt and boxers. He looks down at himself while wondering what he should do until seven. He's got nothing major planned. He could always get some work done—but he shies away from the idea. It's the weekend, and he's going to enjoy it.

Sam stands up as well, stretching like a cat. "I'm going to Carly's to help her unpack stuff in her new place," she informs Freddie, "then we're heading out for appliance_ shopping_." At the evil, last word, Sam shudders exaggeratedly.

She doesn't mind shopping, as long as it's her type of shopping: in and out, with no distractions or meandering. Freddie thinks Sam's efficient when she shops, but has banned her from grocery shopping; it's the one type of shopping Sam actually enjoys, for countless reasons. Freddie has lectured Sam on not opening stuff and eating it in the store so many times he has lost count. Those lectures do not hold a candle to the times he has scolded Sam for putting things in the cart that are not on The List.

"Then I'm meeting Ronny," Sam continues, hopping over to Freddie. She pokes him. "And then I'm meeting you!" She smiles charmingly, hoping to buy back some points.

Freddie nods, grabbing her poking finger before she could snatch it away. He uses it to grip her arm and uses that to pull her against him. He looks down at her and she stares up challengingly at him, brows raised. Freddie can't stand how cute that expression is, but knows Sam won't like to hear the word "cute". So he kisses her thoroughly instead, enjoying her few seconds of surprise before she begins to kiss him back.

Later, they are both fully awake and getting dressed for the day. Freddie has decided to call Spencer to catch up while doing some fencing. Sam is debating on either taking Freddie's car or going in her own beat up, familiar Mustang. She loves her car, but can park Freddie's more easily and the parking near Carly's new apartment is horrific. Freddie makes the decision for her, reaching over and plucking a pair of keys out of her hands. He pecks her on the cheek and shoulders his equipment bag hurriedly, and is out the door before Sam can react.

Freddie shuts the door to the apartment, cutting off Sam's loud, affection curses, and takes the elevator down to the ground floor; as he gets into Sam's car, shoving some fast food boxes and a movie poster off of the seat, Freddie is grinning ear to ear.


	7. Planning

This is a bit longer. Thank you reviewers and readers!

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_Planning_

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Freddie is fencing against Spencer, their blades swirling around each other as they lung and duck and dodge in some kind of strange dance.

Spencer is rusty, as he hasn't practiced in a while, let alone with Freddie; who has the advantage of teaching an advanced fencing class three days a week every other week. Freddie whips around, expertly tapping Spencer, and their third match ends. Freddie holds up his hand, signaling a break, and tugs off his mask. He's panting for breath, and looks over at Spencer, who has also removed his mask and isn't faring much better.

"Good game," Freddie gasps, heading over to the bench and his water bottle. He drains half of it and pours some of it into his hand, splashing it onto his head.

"You…too…" Spencer wheezes, stumbling over to the bench.

In his thirties now, Spencer is married to a super-nice, dedicated, and very pregnant preschool teacher. It's harder to hang out with Spencer because he's a die-hard family man now, and is dedicated to catering to his wife's random food cravings and mood swings. Spencer, though older, is still very spastic and passionate about his art.

Freddie likes Spencer's wife. She's pretty and an enthusiastic art lover. She is also very calm. Freddie thinks they balance each other out very nicely. They work off of each other's strengths and help each other with their weaknesses. They're happy indeed, still acting like they just returned from their honeymoon.

Freddie then thinks that he's been thinking too much about his friends' marriages lately; probably because of his own goal to propose to Sam.

Freddie shakes the thought off and concentrates on Spencer, asking him questions about his art in between gulps of water and recovering their breath. Spencer responds easily. His art is gaining much more notoriety all over the world now, not just in America, where his name is well-known; Spencer is almost a household name, especially after the macaroni-cashew statue of an eagle he had given to the president.

Freddie finally runs out of questions, and they sit there, drinking water and idly watching the other people in the large gym perform various exercises and sports practices.

Then Spencer says, "So, when are you and Sam tying the knot?"

Freddie, in a supremely graceful move—that would have had Sam making fun of him for months if she had seen it—pits out his sip of water. Sputtering, he turns to Spencer but is so shocked that he merely gapes in confusion and question.

Spencer smiles and him and pats him on the back.

"Proposing's tough," he says sympathetically. "I was a mess before I worked up the nerve to ask." He scratches his head and stares up at the ceiling. "In fact, it took me four months to ask. In the end, I just got down on a knee and stared up at her. I couldn't say anything. She figured it out and said yes though, so it was all good." He shakes his head, smiling at the memory. "She'd known I was going to ask for two months and was fed up. But she said yes."

Freddie looks at him incredulously.

"What?" Spencer asks, oblivious.

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Freddie cries in frustration, new doubts joining his old, resurfacing ones. "As if my nerves weren't bad enough!" He cradles his head in his hands, groaning lowly.

Spencer shrugs. "Well, at least I didn't have to propose to Sam," he chuckles. "I'd be too afraid she'd rip my head off and shove the ring down my throat."

Freddie groans again, louder, and Spencer seems to finally realize he is not helping.

He chatters on with helpful tips and meaningless prattle until Freddie no longer looks like he's going to throw himself off a bridge. They go for a few more rounds of fencing, Freddie proving that "the grasshopper has surpassed the master", in Spencer's words; until they're both drooping from exhaustion.

They gather their gear and make plans to get together for dinner with their girls in a few weeks. Spencer says he will make his famous spaghetti-tacos, and Freddie laughs uncertainly, not sure if Spencer is joking or not. Freddie promises he will back Spencer up on _not_ naming Spencer and his wife's baby Sylvester-Pedro, and then he is driving back home; sweaty from the fencing and listening to the CD of a screaming band Sam had left in.

On the way, his phone rings, and Freddie frowns. He is stuck at a notoriously long red light, so he supposes it won't hurt to answer his phone. So he hurriedly takes out his phone and states politely, "Hello, this is Freddie Benson." He had used to just say 'hello', but then he had received too many angry, loud wrong callers—apparently some guy with a similar phone number had a _lot _of furious ex-girlfriends, ex-wives, and relatives—so Freddie now answers with his first name.

Sometimes, though, that doesn't dissuade the angriest callers, who think he's faking it to avoid them. It takes Freddie a while to convince them otherwise, and by then he is nearly deaf in one ear.

"Hi, Freddie!" a perky, female voice chirps. Besides being perky and happy and slightly higher-pitched, the voice is identical to Sam's. Freddie knows automatically who it is.

"Hey, Melanie," Freddie says, smiling reflexively. He likes Melanie, even if he had never been _into _her. It had not taken Freddie long to realize his interest in Melanie had been because he thought she had been Sam. Melanie's cool, but she isn't Sam, for all they look alike. "How have you been?" he asks politely, because it has been a while since he had talked to Melanie.

Melanie chatters on about her job for a bit. She's working in PR (Public Relations), for a world renowned, famous celebrity actress. Melanie travels all over and her hours are insane, but she loves it. Melanie gets to see and converse with celebrities nearly everyday, and she works with clothes. Melanie had debated being a clothing designer, but had given up after realizing how lonely it could become. Freddie thinks Melanie has chosen the perfect job, but worries about what will happen when Melanie gets older. She won't be able to work her job and raise a family.

Freddie doesn't plague her with questions about this, however. It's not his place and Melanie is like Sam in the respect she takes care of herself. Plus Freddie is pretty sure that the equally famous singer brother of the actress Melanie works for is thoroughly infatuated and in love with Melanie, who is painfully oblivious. Freddie is positive that when the singer gathers up enough courage to make a move on Melanie, the two will fall deeply in love and Melanie will be able to quiet her job. The famous singer has quite a lot of money already, and is making more and more everyday.

After a few minutes, Melanie's update on her life is done and she inquires, "So, how are you?"

"I'm doing well," he says distractedly. "Fred-ville is really picking up, and there's less work for me and the guys to do since we've hired a new wave of employees." Freddie has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the phone.

He's trying to remember if it's illegal to talk on the phone while driving. He's nervous, because he remembers a few no-cell-phones-while-driving bills being made, but doesn't know whether they had been passed. He decides to risk it. He has a clean record anyway—which is more than Sam can say.

"That's great," Melanie replies sincerely. Freddie has never met someone so _genuinely _nice; and that such a person looks like Sam is disconcerting and almost disturbing. "I'm glad things are working out for your company. So, how's my sis doing?" she asks warily, knowing how Sam could be 'fine' or 'in jail, it's nothing big, just a bar fight she started and finished, I'm going to pay her bail now' or 'I'm helping her escape from some angry families; apparently she was so hungry she ate their picnic food too'.

Freddie grins, because Sam has been relatively tame in the past few weeks. He hopes it's a turning point and that Sam is finally growing up. He hopes, because _if _they get married and _if _they have children, he doesn't want Sam going to the principal's office alongside their kids. "She's doing great," Freddie says happily, "Rhonda got her a deal and now Sam's going to have her own show."

Melanie gasps joyfully, knowing how much having a show will mean to Sam. "Oh, tell her congrats. And that I'm mad she didn't call and tell me," Melanie says, but everyone knows Melanie could never get mad at Sam, especially when Sam's inability to remember to call people. "Oh, and I meant to ask, because Carly called me…" she trails off.

Freddie braces himself. "And?" he asks warily.

"Omigawd!" Melanie squeals without warning, and Freddie winces at the loud, piercing sound. "She texted me, and I think it's so amazing, and the ring is so perfect, so Sam, and Sam's going to love it, and you guys are going to be _so_, _so _happy because you're absolutely perfect for each other and Sam loves you so much and you love her and this is so amazingly perfect I might cry!"

Freddie's trying to decide if this is an uncharacteristic outburst, and then remembers that all girls act a little loopy and insane whenever something involves weddings. So he grins uneasily and says uncertainly, "Thanks?"

Melanie just squeals. "Tell me when you're official!" she giggles excitedly. "I can't wait! Oh, and I have to help plan the wedding, and the bridal shower, and the bachelorette party—Carly will be the Maid of Honor, I'm sure, but I will be a bridesmaid or else…" she mutters, already thinking of the future, and it hasn't even crossed her mind that Sam could say no. Freddie wishes he could be so confidant in Sam's answer.

Freddie clears his throat, cutting off Melanie's pondering of whether or not Aunt Maggie—Freddie had met her once, and her fake boobs really were very unreal and very hard not to stare at; Freddie hadn't even been sure if his fascination had been male instinct or horror—should be invited after a comment she had made some months ago that had really been quite rude and offensive. Freddie is lost and confused, which Spencer had once told him when the older man had been engaged, which is the natural state of a man who is involved with a wedding.

"You're coming over next week, right?" Freddie asks, to be sure. Sam had made the plans, so he doesn't quite trust that everything's concrete. "Thursday night, for some meatloaf or whatever Sam's in the mood for."

"Of course," Melanie agrees, and her voice isn't as high-pitched in excitement as it had been. "Sam mentioned it, but I wasn't sure if she meant it or it was official until now." Freddie has always been the more dependable one, mostly because Sam never bothers to remember anything she doesn't deem 'important'.

"Alright, so plan on it," Freddie grins and parks in front of his apartment building. He cuts the engine off. "I'll see you then."

"That sounds great," Melanie says, sensing Freddie is getting ready to hang up. She adds suddenly, "_Call me _the second she says yes! Or, you know, the next moment after you're engaged you have free time. But tell me, promise?"

"Okay, okay," Freddie agrees, chuckling at how serious Melanie sounds. "I will. But promise _you _won't tell Sam and ruin the surprise." _And so she won't run off_, he thinks to himself quietly. "I already made Carly swear on Spencer's 'Ode to Carly' statue."

Melanie laughs. "I can't top that. But I swear on my hair," she half-jokes. Then she adds, just in case Freddie doesn't believe her, "I won't speak a word, Freddie. I promise."

Freddie is inexplicably relieved. He believes that made if he can completely surprise Sam, she'll be so shocked she'll say yes; or something like that. "Thanks, Melanie," he says. "I'll talk to you later. Don't forget about Thursday."

"I won't. And don't forget—call me. Right after!" Melanie orders as Freddie hangs up.

He exits the car, shouldering his fencing bag, sliding his phone into his pocket; he heads into the apartment building with a smile on his face, a ring on his mind, and a Sam in his future.


	8. Panicking

This chapter is more development than action; no relationship is perfect or easy, after all.

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_Panicking _

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Freddie is dressed and ready to go two hours early.

Restless, he watches some TV and gets up before the fist commercial break. He cleans the kitchen sinks and dusts behind the fridge. He likes to think he's different than his mom, but in some respects she has rubbed off on him irreversibly. Old habits die hard, and inherited habits die even harder. Freddie is considering dusting the ceiling in the kitchen—random, needless, and potentially dangerous, especially if he stands on the wobbly stool to do it—when he snaps out of it.

He realizes immediately how silly he's being and how his nerves are affecting him. Freddie sits on the couch and breathes in and out, trying to recall the yoga lessons his mother had dragged him to when he had been much younger. He remembers a little bit, and improvises the rest. Slowly, the impulse to clean everything in sight and do something productive fades. Freddie is relieved. But when need-to-clean is forced down, it is replaced by fierce, nervous anxiety.

Freddie nearly has a panic attack, sitting there on the couch. Gasping for air, he clutches the nearest thing available—the orange octopus toy—and attempts to calm himself down. He decides he cannot avoid it. He closes his mouth and breathes in sharply through his nose, facing the truth: he is going to propose to Sam tonight.

He is going to propose to Sam tonight.

_He_, Freddie Benson,is going to _propose _to _Samantha _Puckett _tonight_.

Freddie lets out a small whimper and presses his face into his hands, feeling wretched. He's never been particularly confidant, especially when it comes to Sam. He doesn't know where he stands with her, and that undermines any certainty he has. Sometimes when he kisses her, Freddie's not sure if Sam is going to push him away or drag him closer. Sometimes, he's not sure which one he would prefer. He loves Sam, and in a distant part of his mind knows she loves him back.

But this is such a big step. It is far bigger than just moving in together, which had happened on its own. Moving in had been natural. They had already been dating a few years, and they had gotten out of college. They had been going to live in the same city, why not live together? At first, though, Sam had crashed at Carly's. Freddie had managed to find his own apartment. Then, slowly, Sam had 'accidentally' left or actually forgotten things at his apartment; until she had to come over to get dressed and brush her teeth. She had stayed over so often, that at some point she had just stopped leaving.

Freddie sucks in a deep breath and stares down at the orange octopus toy despairingly. "What am I going to do?" he asks it desperately, wishing it had the answer.

The orange octopus, however, did not answer him.

Sighing, Freddie sets the octopus back down on the couch and goes into the bedroom to change. He comes out a moment later, high-tailing it to the fridge. He opens the freezer and immediately spots the Tupperware. It's untouched, but the bag of tatter tots next to it has not been so lucky. Freddie shakes his head, smiling fondly at the half-eaten tatter tot bag—there is no question, Sam definitely had eaten it—as he takes out the Tupperware. He pops the top off, shedding the 'healthy' Fatty Cake wrapper, and stares down at the velvet box. Freddie thinks about ditching the Tupperware and wrapper, but at the last moment places them in an odd drawer that contains cooking oils and flour.

He heads into the bedroom to change his clothes. When it comes to dressing, Freddie is like a girl. He likes to dress for the occasion. But he isn't sure what a proposing outfit is. Freddie searches through his closet. Sam could walk around with a toga or chicken suit on and be comfortable. Freddie dresses, and dressing in the right way adds to his confidence. And Freddie wants to be confidant for this. He thinks about the restaurant, peering at three outfits he has spread out on the bed.

Burke's is a French restaurant. People come in jeans and dresses and jackets. There is no real dress code. It's a mixture, which frustrates Freddie because he has no clue what to wear. Burke's is not too fancy, not too expensive—but the food is amazing and Sam is in love with the bread. She has never admitted to loving the bread, but the way she demolishes two bread baskets on her own speaks for itself. Freddie brings Sam there often, because she loves it, but spaces the visits out evenly enough that they never become sick of the food.

The waiters all know Sam and Freddie, and Freddie likes to think they're favorite customers. Freddie has a suspicion it's because Sam eats so much, and the bill is always a tidy sum, but Freddie likes to leave good tips. He has the money, and he isn't just throwing it around; he knows what it's like to be a teenager hurting for some spending money.

Plus, Freddie always feels bad for waiters. Sam's brief stint at that chili place has left an impression on him, though she seems to have forgotten about it (she does however consume her chili viciously, stabbing at the innocent food more than called for). The least he figures he can do is giving them the proper tip. The waiters are friendly to them every time they return, and even sneak Sam extra butter and give them a free appetizer.

Freddie inhales sharply and makes a decision. He goes with the tradition Fredward Benson garb—a white t-shirt underneath a dark blue and red striped polo. He slips on his jeans with it and tells himself firmly that this is the outfit. If he over thinks it, he will never get out the door. Freddie takes a few calming breathes as he slips the velvet box inside his jeans' pocket. His jeans are loose enough that the box is hidden; if anyone looks too close—which no one should, unless they're checking him out, something Sam is an expert at stopping—they will assume it is a wallet.

He looks at the clock and is slightly disappointed to see he still has time to kill. He sits on the couch with the orange octopus for company; he watches a little bit of _Rumor Girl _before becoming bored. He switches to a random doctor show. Freddie watches half-paying attention. He can't stop his mind from racing through all of the possibilities, from imagining everything that could go wrong. Sam saying now is the prevalent theme in all of these dark futures. Freddie runs a hand through his hair and groans lowly, wondering if all men proposing go through this.

He almost wishes Sam would just propose, but he knows she won't. Sam doesn't like to admit to needing anyone else, and she probably sees proposing as that. Plus, though he may act feminine in some aspects, Freddie does have male pride. He's traditional—as his mom had raised him to be; he politely opens doors for women and smiles at old grandmothers he passes in the street—and _wants _to ask Sam.

Freddie finally resorts to flicking through the channels as fast as he can, just to distract himself. He's more nervous than the time he had to kiss Sam (where it all began) or the time he had to give a speech to his graduating class (valedictorian, he had barely beat Carly) or the time he had worked up the courage to hold Sam's hand (on their first date—she had punched him on the shoulder for it, had insulted him, and later on had grabbed his hand when she thought he hadn't been paying attention). Freddie closes his eyes and pictures Sam's face. She's smiling, she's smirking, she's scowling, she's looking up at the sky, she's eyeing his food, and finally, Freddie favorite, she's pretending to be mad at him but her eyes are laughing, laughing as she gently slaps him on his head and hugs him in the next moment.

He's smiling, and suddenly his panic vanishes. Freddie is comforted by thinking of Sam. She means so much to him, enough that he's willing to take the leap, to risk asking her to marry him. Freddie stands up, nods to the octopus, and grabs his keys off the counter. He's early. Freddie heads out the door anyway. He's waited for Sam a lot in his life, even before they had started dating, and Freddie is willing to wait as long as it takes. He gets into Sam's car, because Sam is still out in his, and starts driving. He'll get there a few minutes early. Sam is always late anyway.

But two hours later, Freddie is sitting in a quiet, secluded booth detached from the rest of the restaurant, and Sam is still not there. He looks at his watch every few minutes, growing more and more agitated and worried and annoyed as every minute passes. He had told Sam the time. She had heard him. Freddie waves away another waiter, more curtly than he would have if he had been in a better mood. The waiter isn't offended. Instead, she shoots Freddie a concerned look and retreats. The staff knows Freddie and Sam. They've seen Sam arrive half an hour late; they've seen her eat more food than possible. But they've never witnessed Sam being this late.

Neither has Freddie.

He checks his phone, but there are no messages. He double-checks the apartment messaging machine, but there's nothing there either. Freddie frowns, trying not to feel hurt. He knows Sam isn't doing this on purpose, but it stings anyway. He had thought he had been important enough to Sam that she would remember to be on time to one dinner. Freddie sips at his water. He pauses, conviction striking him, and he waves over a hovering waiter. The young waiter looks at Freddie expectantly.

Freddie orders an alcoholic beverage. "Hurry, please," Freddie says wearily.

The waiter nods and runs off to place Freddie's order. Some of the waiting staff hadn't known who Freddie was. They had thought he was being stood up; then the rest of the waiters had clued them in. But Freddie thinks now that they had gotten it right. He is being stood up. After six years, Sam is standing Freddie up. It isn't the first time, but it hasn't happen in a while and Freddie is offended and confused. He thinks back, but he can't stop anywhere in the past few hours where he had messed up enough to warrant Sam not coming.

Disheartened, Freddie chugs the drink the waiter brings back to him. Freddie is determined to wait, just in case Sam decides to make an appearance. Three other drinks later, Freddie is still not drink—he stays unsatisfying sober whenever something worries him, plus it takes a lot to make him drunk; an unusual talent he had discovered thanks to Sam—and is considering leaving.

Typically, that is when Sam finally breezes in with a, "howdy, nub."

She's wearing the green sweat pants with the blue and orange polka-dots. Her shirt is an over-seized band t-shirt obviously 'borrowed' from Freddie. They're the clothes she had on when Freddie had left that morning. Her hair is sloppily tied back into a loose ponytail, curly strands hanging around her face. She's been with Carly all day, and probably has just come from Carly's apartment. Freddie can't believe it. Sam hadn't even taken the time to change. He stares at Sam, as she drops into the seat across from him and begins to chatter like she isn't horrendously late.

"…then Carls—you should've seen her, Freddork, it was awesome—ordered the snob to just show her the microwaves already, and he couldn't have moved fast enough. She got half off and I got a free fork." Sam snickers as her story draws to a close.

"That's nice," Freddie says distantly, downing the last of his drink. He looks at the empty glass sadly, wondering how it had gone by so fast.

Sam at last seems to notice Freddie's uncharacteristic blank expression and strange behavior.

"What's eating you?" she inquires distractedly, reaching over to grab the bread basket from an approaching waiter. Sam doesn't thank the waiter and barely looks at her.

The waiter, the girl from before, shoots Sam a disapproving, berating look before she goes off to attend to another table. Sam notices and frowns; she's always had a sixth sense to notice when there's negative feelings being aimed at her. After buttering and eating half of a piece of bread, she turns to Freddie and asks with her mouth charmingly full, "What's up?"

Freddie opens his mouth. There are several things he should say, and several things he wants to say. But what comes out is: "You're late. How was shopping?" Freddie doesn't explode, doesn't demand to know why Sam thinks it's acceptable to come two hours late, and doesn't ask how Sam had known he would still be here after two hours.

Freddie's too busy thinking about the velvet box in his pocket, and how that ring will be going back into the freezer for a while; and how he really would like another drink.


	9. Thinking

_Thinking_

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_

Freddie is still feeling vaguely lost, so when Sam suggests they go to a movie, he concedes without thinking.

They walk into the theater and it's getting late; so of course the theater is packed. There's an hour until a midnight premiere of _Ali in Ponderworld_. It's the third or maybe even fifth one. Carly had dragged Sam and him to see the first movie in theaters. Freddie tries to recall seeing it, but the only memories he can dig up is Sam stealing all his popcorn, Carly monopolizing his soda, and falling asleep twenty minutes in.

Freddie had mistakenly thought it would be better than a chick flick; it had turned out to be—he remembers suddenly as he waits in the ticket line with Sam, who is eyeing the concession stand—a freaky, confusing, almost disturbing chick flick with some freakishly dressed people; even worse than normal chick flicks. Carly had loved it. Sam had gone for the cute actor who starred in it and the popcorn Freddie had been conned into buying her. Remembering the movie doesn't really matter to Freddie, and he doesn't care that by the time he and Sam exit their movie, it'll be early morning.

What matters is that the theater is packed with teenagers, giggling and shouting and being generally very loud and obnoxious. Packs of girls move around the lobby, shrieking with laughter or surprise, and clouds of perfume follow them. There are smaller, rarer groups of boys, who stand together and fondly watch their girlfriends make complete fools of themselves. Freddie had never been one of those boys, as Sam despises giggling and cannot stand being around groups of girls. Freddie had been the boyfriend who had been dragged into the theater insanely earlier, to claim a good seat and see who could throw a piece of popcorn the farthest.

"Omigawd!" a teenage girl screeches at the top of her lungs, drawing the attention of half of the lobby.

She's pointing across the theater at a boy who is playing one of the arcade games, innocently standing next to a girl who can't be more than eleven.

"Jared, I can't believe you!" The girl is tearing up now, as if she has caught her boyfriend, who looks confused, with his hand down another girl's shirt; instead of standing within three feet of another, way younger female.

The girl bursts into tears and her girl friends surround her, soothing her and shooting glares at a flabbergasted Jared, who is obviously at a loss confronted with the complexities of the average, hormonal, teenage girl.

Freddie thinks dark thoughts about the youth of today, particularly how ridiculous and overloud they are, and then realizes he's thinking like a crotchety old man. Then he thinks that, at least, crotchety old men are or had been married. Then Freddie stops thinking and mechanically hands his credit card to the ticket girl as Sam announces the movie they are going to see. It's some action film with lots of explosions and car chases. And the added bonus of a 'smoking' male lead, Sam informs him loftily as the ticket girl holds out their tickets and Freddie's credit card.

Freddie pockets the tickets and Sam leads the way to the concession stand, which Freddie believes is the main reason Sam comes to the movies. She's already schmoozed her way to the front by the time Freddie catches up with her. He simply stands there while Sam orders so much food, it is impossible to believe she had only finished dinner an hour ago. He willingly carries most of the food, juggling it all with experienced ease. Sam herself holds only a super-large soda, from which she sips as Freddie attempts to get their tickets out of his pocket without dropping any of the food—the punishment for that sin, Freddie has learned from precious few occasions before, is quick and very, very bad.

Finally, Sam grows impatient and mercifully sticks her hand into Freddie pocket. He doesn't bat an eye, used to Sam taking liberties. She thrusts the tickets at the employee and doesn't wait for the stubs, heading off down the corridor. Freddie follows meekly, debating on whether or not Sam will notice if he eats some of the popcorn before they sit down. He decides not to risk it. Sam is extremely unreasonable and OCD when it comes to her food; and Freddie is really rather partial to keeping his head _on_ his body.

Sam generously holds the door open for him, and they walk into the theater. It's cool, dark, and there aren't that many other people. The movie had come out a few weeks before, which means there shouldn't be that much of a crowd. Freddie is grateful, if only because it will give Sam less targets to antagonize by bombarding them with small candy or popcorn pieces. She has let Freddie take the blame in many incidents before, and Freddie is not looking forward to repeating performances. The last guy had been at least seven feet tall and looked like a less green _Bulk_, the comic book hero. Plus, the guy had sucker punched an apologizing Freddie, who hadn't seen it coming. Then Sam had interrupted and beat the guy up until he had started crying, which hadn't taken very long because, duh, _Sam_.

Sam marches straight down the aisle, intent on getting the middle seat in the middle row of the room, and Freddie meanders behind her, taking his time. He knows Sam is very picky about where she sits when there are more options available. Sure enough, five minutes and many seats later, Sam settles down into a seat and throws Freddie an expectant look. He slide into the seat next to her, and begins to deposit his drink, the two large popcorns, the one small popcorn (for throwing, Freddie suspects), and multiple candy bags and boxes around them. Sam lays her arm on the top of Freddie's chair and the empty seat on her other side, crossing her legs, and gets comfortable.

There are a few advertisements playing on a loop, nothing interesting, and Freddie absently snacks on the small popcorn. He is mildly surprised when Sam doesn't rebuke him for eating her ammunition. She probably has realized there aren't enough people in the theater to get away with throwing popcorn. Freddie is relieved and continues to sit there, legs stretched out in front of him. Sam props her feet up on the empty seat in front of her, despite the signs that had been on the door of the theater asking people not to.

Freddie doesn't bother to start a conversation and Sam doesn't say anything. She enjoys silence in movie theaters, and hates when a large talkative group is in the same theater as her. Unlike everyone else though, who just bears through it or even leaves the movie, Sam tends to confront those large talkative groups.

And those large talkative groups tend to listen to her, because Sam can be very convincing.

The lights dim, previews begin, and Sam starts in on her first popcorn. It's so smothered in butter Freddie knows there's probably a puddle of butter at the bottom of the container. He should be grossed out, but he isn't. He's known and lived with Sam for so long, he's used to and numb to her habits. But as the movie beings and the credits appear on the screen, words on top of the image of a car chase through the narrow streets of what looks like Italy, Freddie pauses.

His brain wakes up, screaming at the tops of its lungs, and Freddie is incredibly aware of the velvet box in his pocket. He looks at Sam out of the corner of his eye, and thinks. He really could whip the ring out right now. Sam is in her element, eating junk food and watching an action movie with her feet rebelliously placed on the chair in front of her. There's practically no one else there, besides the young couple in the back row and a trio of college age kids sitting closer to the screen.

Freddie could just take the ring out, and whisper to Sam, and it would be done. But as Freddie seriously considers it, there is a niggling doubt that he is taking the easy way out. Proposing at a movie theater? It would distract Sam from the movie—she would no doubt make him take her back—and if her reaction is violent, there are so many things that could go wrong. So Freddie hand, reaching for his pocket, stops and instead grabs a handful of popcorn. He shoves it into his mouth, feeling a bizarre urge to cry.

Proposing isn't supposed to be this hard. He had bought the ring and had thought that was all there was to it. Now Freddie knows how wrong he had been. He mourns unfair life and wonders what he had possibly done to afford such bad, horrific karma. Freddie goes through the motions; he looks at the movie, hands Sam her candy when she wants it, and snacks on his own food. He drinks his soda. But he isn't there mentally.

In his mind, Freddie is preparing a new plan; a better plan. One with various back-ups in case it should fail. Freddie formulates the perfect plot while Sam unsuspectingly sits beside him. By the time the lights turn on, Freddie is in a better, happier mood and Sam has polished off all of her food—as well as half of Freddie's popcorn and the remainder of his soda. Freddie isn't mad about it; he finds it endearing and, in a twisted way, intriguing how Sam can eat more than him combined with three starving sumo wrestlers trying to go up three weight classes. If sumo wrestlers had weight classes, Freddie ponders, as he leaves the theater with Sam.

Freddie's arm is around Sam's waist, she reeks of butter, and while she suggests that they make a midnight run to a fast food place, Freddie thinks about the diet of sumo wrestlers.


	10. Interlude

_Interlude_

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_Once upon a time, a time that is actually right now, in a state called Seattle…_

Sam knows its love at first sight. The people around her fade, everything is muted, and it's like she has tunnel vision; and at the end of the tunnel, there _he_ is. He's glorious, cute, and different. He's everything she has ever wanted. She has been relatively disinterested the others, but he outshines and outclasses them all. She stares at him, and he is stunning.

In all of his neon orange, fluffy, eight legged, octopus glory.

The stuffed neon orange octopus toy is a prize at one of those totally rigged games. The fair Sam is at is small, local, but absolutely adorable. She would never admit it, but she is having so much fun. Sam has sampled the wares of almost every food booth in the fair, all for free because she's on a date, after all, and the man always pays—and pay her man does, though he whines and pretends it's a hassle and acts put out when Sam doesn't share. He's used to Sam by now. She congratulates herself on a job well done. He's trained perfectly.

Now Sam snacks on her third churro, cinnamon getting everywhere, her free arm loosely draped around Freddie's shoulders. She wore the shoes that add extra height to her, just so Freddie would only be a few inches taller than her. She likes it when he cannot use his height as an advantage. Sam has considered wearing heels to match his height, but they make her feel girly and give her blisters.

Sam has had a blast, people watching and making fun of the hopeless people who try their luck at the fair games. Freddie humors Sam, sometimes even joining in her critiquing. He laughs at most of her jokes, and when she goes a little bit too far, he pretends to be disapproving but snickers quietly when he thinks she will not notice. It's endearing, and Sam can't imagine a better way to spend a Saturday evening.

She's been making fun of all the cheap, dinky toys. None of them are worth over a dollar or the time to play a game, she's been saying all night. Freddie shrugs. He has tried a few games, has won the majority of them, but has politely turned down the prizes. He doesn't want the toys and Sam refuses to be the girlfriend who carts around the stuffed animals all night like trophies showing how _awesome _and _wonderful _and _talented _their boyfriends are.

Sam doesn't like to fall under stereotypes, even if she knows that Freddie really is awesome and wonderful and talented. He's a far better man than any of the other overly buff or mustached or tattooed idiots walking around the fair with their simpering, ditzy girls hanging off of their arms. Sam doesn't openly brag about Freddie, because that would give him a big head. Instead, she conveys her pride and satisfaction in a way Freddie doesn't and will never understand: girl body language.

Freddie is distracted by the feris wheel, and Sam takes the opportunity to put her hand in his back pocket and squeeze. She glares at the duo of blonde bimbos that have been eyeing Freddie for the past few minutes as she does this, to stake a clear claim. Then Freddie flinches from the sound grope and flushes, looking back at Sam and saying in that embarrassed, exasperated, fond tone, "_Sam_." She just smirks at him and drags him off to the cotton candy cart.

There are many other times.

In the funhouse Sam takes advantage of a dark corner and kisses Freddie, sweet and slow, and keeps it chaste. Giddy, Freddie grins at her widely when they part. Sam pushes him forward, saying that if they spring any booby traps he'll be her human shield, but as she says it she smiles smugly in the direction of a group of young girls who are staring after Freddie wistfully.

Sam lets Freddie hold her hand when they go on the small rollercoaster, because she knows he hates heights and because she wants to dissuade the determined-looking redheaded woman sitting behind them. After they get off of the ride, Sam loops her arm around Freddie, supporting him as he shakily walks away from the rollercoaster. The redheaded woman does not approach them. Sam later sees the woman accosting a cocky, handsome man at the star shoot-out range.

Sam lets Freddie sink his spoon into her ice cream, but lunges forward and puts the spoon in her mouth, Freddie still holding it, before he can eat it. Sam locks eyes with Freddie as she slowly lets the spoon go, ice cream melting in her mouth. Freddie's eyes go dark but he remembers where they are. He excuses himself and goes over to watch bumper cars and calm down. Sam raises her eyebrow as the girl in the ice cream booth, who tries not to let her disappointment show. Sam shots the girl a look, because the girl had been eyeing Freddie up shamelessly as he ordered, and goes over to Freddie.

Sam lets Freddie offer to win prizes for her and declines every time. She's touched he's offered, but Sam is far better at all of the shooting games and none of the toy prizes have struck Sam's fancy. Finally, as Freddie resigns himself to not winning Sam anything, to loosing a chance to be her knight in shining armor, Sam sees the octopus.

It's sitting amongst teddy bears and beach balls, conspicuously out of place. Sam doesn't even know why the beach balls are a prize. They live in Seattle, Washington, hardly good beach weather unless you went down to California. But Sam knows that she likes this octopus, and could see herself carrying it around the fair. It's small, but Sam would carry it far prouder than any of the girls with life seize stuffed dogs or frogs. Sam immediately wants it, but is hesitant to ask Freddie.

Somehow, inexplicably, Freddie _knows_. He does it so causally it takes Sam a few weeks to realize he had done it purposely. They wander around the fair, circling around, always coming back to the game booth with the octopus. Every time Sam determinedly does not look at the octopus. After a while, it gets dark and everything lights up, and Freddie has yawned a few times already; soon he will be tired and want to go home. Sam looses hope. She isn't going to ask for the octopus. She can't win it herself. She's hopeless at knocking the milk bottles down, which is what the octopus' game is, and she tries to forget about it.

But then Freddie hands her ten bucks and tells her to go and get a funnel cake. She instantly rushes off, knowing that Freddie has given her ten dollars because he knows her; he knows she will get two funnel cakes and a large soda or something else extravagant that she will somehow manage to polish off. Sam impatiently waits in line and orders. The funnel cakes come, smothered in chocolate and topped with strawberry and whip cream, and Sam breathes the smell in. They're fresh and steaming with heat.

Sam delights in the fried goodness. She eats one before deciding to head back to Freddie. There have been far too many girls giving Freddie the eye and/or checking him out. Sam is lucky Freddie is so oblivious; otherwise he would be much more arrogant and insufferable. The two of them together would be disastrous then.

When Sam comes back, Freddie isn't where she left him. Instead, she sees him mid-motion, throwing a whiffle ball at a stack of milk bottles that are probably unfairly weighted down. Sam rushes over, eyes fastened onto the ball as it flies. She reaches Freddie just as the ball connects, impossibly knocking down _all of the bottles_.

Sam knows she's gaping but she can't stop. She's thinking—how did he know? How did Freddie know? Because the guy in the booth is congratulating Freddie and gesturing at all of the toys; and Freddie is pointing at the octopus, Sam's octopus, and then the guy hands him it. Sam is dumbfounded, funnel cake forgotten in her hand, as Freddie turns and faces her with a huge, brilliant grin on his face and a neon stuffed octopus toy in his arms.

"Here you are," Freddie says, and he takes the funnel cake from Sam's hand, swapping it for the octopus.

Sam numbly accepts the toy, knowing her hands are coated in powdered sugar but not knowing what to do. At a loss, she clears her throat and stares at Freddie. For perhaps the first or second time in her life, Samantha Puckett cannot find any words to say. A snarky comment or joke won't fit here, she knows, so she says nothing at all.

And perhaps, with her silence, says everything and all.

Then she realizes Freddie is eating her funnel cake and the strange mood breaks; she whacks him with her octopus, grabbing back the funnel cake and flinging sugar all over him in the process.

They're both laughing hard and when the night is over, they and the neon orange octopus are completely covered in powdered sugar; and maybe Sam leans over and kisses Freddie's cheek, removing the sugar in the shape of a pair of lips, but that doesn't make her a sap.

…_there were two people who were very much in love; even though they had incredible odd ways of showing it. _


	11. Contemplating

Thank you for the reviews! Sorry if this chapter's a little boring; more action in the next.

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_Contemplating_

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Freddie wakes up and stares at the ceiling for some time. He isn't sure why he is staring, just that it's good, mindless staring.

Then he wakes up some more and registers that there's an arm wrapped firmly around his waist and a leg thrown over his hip. Sam snores gently, her head tucked against his neck. They're both lying on their sides and Freddie wonders how he's going to extricate himself this time. Sam's more wrapped up around him than the day before. He considers just waking her up, because he still is the tiniest bit annoyed with her for being so late to dinner and thus ruining his secret proposal plan.

But Freddie can't stay mad—because Sam had _apologized_ last night.

She had taken him by surprise, and it hadn't been a very good apology, at least by normal standards. But the fact that Sam had apologized, had admitted she had done something wrong and had tried to make up for it, was monumental. Freddie had been floored. It had been such a touching, rare, _Sam_ moment that Freddie intends to treasure.

Sam had waited until they had been getting ready for bed, and then had walked over to Freddie, looked him dead in the eye, and said, "Sorry I lost track of time. I didn't mean to. I love you, Fredward."

Before Freddie had recovered enough to begin rubbing it in or teasing her about it, Sam had kissed her determinedly and he had been too reasonably distracted to give it much thought after that. He now lies there, wondering not for the first time how the woman beside him thinks. Sam is an enigma, even after all the years he has known her. He is slowly discovering new things about her, hidden quirks and subtle habits. But it is a painfully slow process, and there are some things Freddie knows he will never understand—most of the time, for the better.

His thoughts stray back to the disastrous dinner and movie last night; Freddie analyzes the night, recognizing new little moments where he could have pulled Sam to the side and popped the question. But he had not done it. Freddie doesn't want to admit to himself, but he faces it: he is terrified. He truly doesn't know what to expect of Sam—she is forever surprising him—and this is such a serious question he doesn't want to risk anything. Freddie isn't confidant that Sam will say yes. He isn't even sure that really loves him, as she's only said she loves him six times. That's close to a thousand in Sam-language, but Freddie is still unsure.

Feeling his mood dropping into despair, Freddie slows untangles himself from Sam, slips on some clothes, and heads out into the kitchen. He doesn't dare to turn the radio or TV on, so he gets the orange octopus toy and sets it on the counter for company. The sight of the orange toy is enough to make Freddie smile.

Freddie starts coffee and toasts some bread. Unlike Sam, the octopus does not monopolize or steal Freddie's food. Freddie munches on his buttered toast, wondering idly what he should do today. He decides that since Sam had visited Carly yesterday, he would do the same today. Carly is their best friend, they are all close. Ever since Freddie and Sam had started dating, however, Carly has become something shared.

Sam has never been very good at sharing.

But Carly and Freddie make time for each other, because they are friends in a way Carly and Sam will never be, and vice versa. Freddie wonders sometimes how he hadn't ended up gay, with two girl best friends. Then he wonders how he hadn't ended up insane, with Sam and Carly as his best friends. Freddie wouldn't trade them for the world, however. They're the best friends he's ever had; and he knows that even if Sam and he ever break up, their friendship will still remain steady.

The very idea his and Sam's relationship ending makes Freddie's stomach turn uncomfortably. He gobbles down the last of his toast and chugs his coffee. He had not expected it to still be warm, so he sputters and flinches when the warm coffee burns his throat as he swallows. Gasping, Freddie stumbles over to the sink and grabs a glass, blindly reaching out for water. He sprays himself for a moment until he manages to get his glass underneath the faucet. Freddie carefully and daintily sips at the water, its coolness soothing his irritated throat. It reminds Freddie of the time Sam had slipped super hot chili peppers into his burger once. Freddie had not been able to taste anything for a week; the first thing he had finally been able to taste had been Carly's chocolate chip brownies.

Suddenly, Freddie knows what he is going to do today. He glances at the clock, but it's far earlier than Sam will tolerate him waking her up. So Freddie shrugs and decides he'll leave a note. He grabs his Pear phone, ignoring an e-mail from Neville, and quietly dials. It rings for a few seconds, and then someone picks up.

"Hello?" a bleary voice asks.

"Hi, Carly," Freddie answers sheepishly, just remembering that Carly sleeps in, though not as much as Sam. He is somewhat of a morning person, which makes it hard to find something to do in his free morning; because most of his friends are non-morning people. "I was wondering. Could I come over for lunch? I'll teach you how to make twice baked potatoes," he adds, knowing Carly loves his potatoes. She completely fails at cooking them, so Freddie is really bribing her.

"Huh," Carly grunts, still half-asleep but conscious enough to understand Freddie's words; or least understand "lunch" and "twice-baked potatoes". "That's cool," she continues, "and I'll make chocolate chip brownies for you."

Freddie smiles dreamily in anticipation. Carly may not be very talented at cooking regular food—though she is extremely good at cooking Spencer's unconventional, but still tasty, meals—but she is an expert at desserts. Her chocolate chip brownies are her specialty and Freddie's favorite. (Sam's favorite is any dessert, really. Sam claims she doesn't like to discriminate or play favorites with her food.)

"Sounds good," Freddie says happily and loudly. Then he remembers he is supposed to keep quiet because Sam is still sleeping. Lowering his voice, Freddie adds, "I've got some news for you, to talk about." His voice is glum, but in her sleep addled state Carly misses that.

"Oh my God!" Carly squeals and Freddie holds the phone away from his ear. When he brings it tentatively back, Carly is still rambling, "—so awesome and I'll take care of her during the bachelorette party and this is so great and I knew you could do it and I better be the Maid of Honor—"

"Carly," Freddie interrupts softly. "I didn't do it."

It takes Carly a minute to absorb this. Then, in a completely different and somber tone, she asks, to clarify, "You didn't propose?"

"No," Freddie sighs. "She got to the restaurant too late, and it just wasn't _right_." He winces, because he knows how ridiculous he sounds. There isn't a 'right' time to propose, he knows, but it hadn't felt right, proposing to Sam in that restaurant after she had kept him waiting and she had been under dressed.

"Oh, Freddie," Carly says in a sad voice. "I'm so sorry I kept Sam out late. It's all my fault, I should've sent her back to change at least or let her borrow something—"

"Carly," Freddie interrupts again, "It wasn't your fault. I just need to man up." He clears his throat, signaling the end of this discussion for now, and adds, "One sound okay to you?"

Still sounding somewhat troubled, Carly replies, "Yeah, one's fine. I don't think Sam will be up by then though." She chuckles and Freddie joins in. Sam would sleep and eat and annoy Freddie for the rest of her life, and she would be content and blissfully happy.

"See you then," Freddie says, preparing to hang up, but Carly's parting words stop him.

"Freddie, she loves you." Carly says and then, like she hadn't just soothed all of Freddie's unspoken fears, adds brightly, "See you in a couple hours, Freddie!"

Freddie hangs up and sets his phone down on the counter, mechanically going to turn off the coffee pot and checking to make sure the toaster is off. He places his dishes in the dishwasher—Sam, unsurprisingly, never does—and washes his hand, just to give himself something to do while he gathers his mind. Freddie settles on thinking that, after knowing each other for so many years, Carly knows him almost better than he does. Plus, women are an enigma to all men. Women work in mysterious ways, Freddie knows, and even if Sam doesn't act like a lady most of the time, she, too, partakes in this strange female code that hoodwinks Freddie so often.

Freddie contemplates the complicated puzzle that is the female mine and then abruptly thinks about chocolate chip brownies; because while female's minds are stunningly complex and prone to dwell on things, male minds are fickle and usually revert back to food quickly.


	12. Talking

**Note:** Sorry for the wait; summer reading's come a'calling. I might be a little slow with the updates.

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_Talking_

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Freddie is on his fifth piece of brownie merely twenty minutes after the over had gone off. He hasn't eaten like this since his teenage years; where he had eaten everything he could get his hands on. It makes it even better that he is now eating Carly's chocolate chip brownies.

Carly, on her second piece, watches Freddie with amusement. She sips at her milk and sets her fork down on the island. They are in the kitchen, where they have been for the past hour and a half. Carly had made the brownies while Freddie had hovered, looking to steal some of the batter. She had given him a liberal spoon of brownie batter, and had secured the bowl for herself under cook's rights after pouring most of the batter into the brownie pan. She and Freddie had talked, music playing softly in the background, while the brownies had cooked.

Now, however, after dancing around the issue, Carly wants to get to the bottom of this. She clears her throat and Freddie warily looks up. He knows her too well, knows what is coming. Carly ignores this, determined to see this conversation through. She wants her two best friends to be happy.

"Freddie," Carly starts, straightening up her posture, a clear indication that she means business.

Freddie swallows his giant bite, the last of his fifth piece, and his eyes dart around, looking for a way out. He finds it in the Pear Pod speaker sitting innocently on the island beside the half-eaten brownie pan. Scrambling madly in an attempt to put off, Freddie points at the speakers blurts out, "Who is this? It's really good."

Carly pauses, successfully distracted. She listens for a moment and Freddie with her, wondering what the heck he had just complimented. It turns out to a man singing, his voice raspy and jumping all over the place, lyrics witty and style reeking of the Beatles and other vivid past icons. It's not half bad, and Freddie wonders what it's doing on Carly's Pear Pod. Carly tends to enjoy techno-pop and boy bands with engineered voices; as well as actors-turned-singers. Freddie doesn't have much of a taste in music, though nowadays he listens to whatever harsh, loud band Sam wants to; but he knows enough to realize that Carly's cloying music is not his thing.

This song doesn't fit in with what listens to, and Freddie looks questioningly at Carly. He actually wants to know the answer now. She sees his sincerity and sighs heavily, leaning her back against the island.

She glances at her Pear Pod and admits, "Drake Parker."

Freddie's mouth drops open minutely. "Drake Parker?" he echoes, remembering some pretty boy with flippy hair and cliché lyrics, crooning into a microphone while strumming angrily at a guitar. But Drake Parker's amazing transformation from catering to teenage girls to delivering an original masterpiece isn't what Freddie thinks about. Instead, he says, "Doesn't his sister look exactly like you?"

Carly scowls and snaps, "Yes, but that doesn't mean anything!"

In high school, Carly had been obsessed with Drake Parker, Freddie remembers. She had announced nonstop that one day she was going to marry him. Then Sam had brought in a picture of Drake's little sister, Megan, who looks remarkably like Carly. Sam had said that Drake wouldn't marry his sister's lookalike. It would be too creepy and too much like incest. Carly had sulked for a whole week, refusing to talk to Sam or Freddie. She had lost her obsession with Drake Parker, but had continued listening to his music.

It had always remained a sore spot, however.

Freddie smiles and holds his hands up in a placating manner. "It doesn't," he agrees, not wanting to start an argument. Then he hesitates, wondering if he should start an argument to dissuade Carly for her goal. But Freddie doesn't do that, because he isn't that kind of guy; and he knows that nothing will stop Carly when she puts her mind to something. It has always been something he admires, but never when it's used against him.

So he waits until Carly catches on. She smiles wryly at him and asks, "So, when are you doing to propose?"

Freddie nearly flinches at the word. He breathes in, breathes out, and says carefully, "I'm thinking…soon." He blushes and ducks his head down, embarrassed. He knows that a man's supposed to be confident and sure when he proposes. The problem is, Freddie is sure Sam is the right girl for him. He just isn't sure if she feels that he's the right guy for her. Freddie scared of loosing Sam, and that's what keeping him. Plus the way his tentative plan had totally tanked thanks to an oblivious Sam hadn't helped matters much.

"How soon?" Carly asks, concerned. "Freddie, this might sound terrible, but I think you should just get it over with." She eyes him knowingly. "How many messages has your mom left you?"

Freddie taps his fingers together and looks at ceiling innocently. Inwardly, he winces. His mom has called him nonstop every day since he had purchased the ring; she wants Freddie to marry, and Mrs. Benson has long since grown accustomed to Sam.

"That's what I thought," Carly states, taking Freddie's silence for the answer it is; she nods and scoops up the rest of her brownie, daintily shoving it into her mouth.

Freddie takes advantage of this, nabbing a sixth piece of brownie and chugging some more of his own milk. Carly chews, swallows, and then speaks again. Freddie had almost expected Carly to speak with her mouth full—but that is what Sam does.

"Freddie, I think the only way you can pop the question and avoid your nerves is to," Carly hesitates, but stumbles on, "well, _get it over with_." Carly stresses the last four words, raising her eyebrows.

Freddie blinks, his mouth dropping open, revealing the attractive sight of half-chewed brownie. Carly wisely does not comment on Freddie's open mouth, knowing he needs time to absorb her clever suggestion.

And absorb it Freddie does. It's as if everything has clicked into place; like his Pear Pod had been set on another, foreign, obscure language, and now it's in perfect English. Freddie wonders how he hadn't thought of it before. 'Get it over with'. It's simple and genius in its simplicity. Sam isn't a romantic—or so she claims, but Freddie has made her _swoon_ and darn it, that's got to count for something—and she understands things better when they're blunt and straightforward. Sam doesn't need fancy dinners or candlelight. Freddie doesn't need it either. All he needs is Sam, and he's willing to do almost anything to keep Sam around him for the rest of his life.

"Oh," Freddie says in a small voice to convey his epiphany to a smug looking Carly, "right." There's another plan, slowly taking form in his head, but he doesn't dwell on it. He's still floored by Carly's advice, but not floored enough to realize if this works Carly will gloat forever and ever.

Carly nods, her smug grin growing, as she says, "Now that that's settled, you're going to help me make another batch of brownies while listening to me practice."

Freddie barely restrains a complaining groan.

Carly is an insanely popular talk-show host, who meets with celebrities and prominent figures that are known world wide. The show is, of course, called _iTalk with Carly_ and most of the tech people who work on the show had come highly recommend from Freddie. Freddie and Sam watch it whenever they can, though usually they are behind the cameramen, watching it live. Carly constantly gives them free seats, and her bosses encourage her. Everyone who watches Carly's show has heard of or followed the _iCarly _web show; the viewers love seeing Freddie and Sam in the live studio audience, and whenever Sam and Freddie go they get some camera time.

But Freddie sucks it up, even though he's a hopeless cook when it comes to desserts—luckily Sam prefers fat store-bought desserts and ice cream sundaes from restaurants and cheese cake from the _Cheesecake Warehouse_. He isn't looking forward to cooking or listening to Carly practice the questions she's going to ask her next guest; because Carly tends to repeat things over and over until she's satisfied. But Freddie owes Carly for the revelation she had just induced, so he rolls up his sleeves, ready to help make brownies.

In the end, the brownies Freddie had helped make come out burnt and smelling like Spencer's sausage-patterned socks; so Freddie and Carly laugh and finish off the good batch, listening to Drake Parker's latest album.


	13. Losing

Shorter but juicier. Thank you, reviewers. This is for you.

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_Losing_

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Freddie sings along at the top of his lungs as a guitar riff crashes against the shouting, mildly disturbing lyrics.

This is Sam's music, but it's grown on Freddie. He isn't going to admit it to Sam though, because she will never let him hear the end of it. So he pretends to be sulking when she turns her music on; when, inside, he is singing with the music. It's something that gives him the upper hand, as he's fairly sure he knows the words to all of Sam's favorite songs better than she does. And since most of the singers are male, Freddie's pretty sure he can sing them better too. Music is just one thing Sam and Freddie now share.

Everything in Freddie's life is connected to Sam in some ways. He knows it should scare or intimidate him, but instead he feels a strange sort of peace. If he is bound to Sam, then she in turn is also bound to him in a way. Freddie taps his hands on the steering wheel, screaming out a grammatical nightmare of a sentence while the drummer attempts to put a hole in each of his drums; Freddie pulls his car into a spot and cuts the engine in the middle of the chorus. He hurries out of the car, excitement and anticipation sweeping through him.

He practically _sprints _into the apartment complex, thinking all the while. If Sam's music has grown on him, it makes him wonder how much she has grown on him. Freddie is stunned by the enormity as he realizes Sam is his other half, she's a part of him. But then again, that's why he's asking her to marry him. He can't imagine life without her—he doesn't want to. Sam's his soul mate, he's sure. From the first time she had insulted and shoved him, Freddie had somehow known.

Freddie doesn't wait for the elevator. He takes the stairs two at a time, pulling out his key ring. As he scrambles down the hallway, trying to select the correct key, Freddie attempts not to think about what he's going to do. Sam may claim not to be a romantic, but he knows she loves spontaneity. She loves to be surprised. Freddie can only hope that she'll like this surprise.

He jams the key into the lock and pushes the door open. Freddie stumbles in his excitement, catching his balance as the door shuts behind him. Swallowing and then breathing slightly hard from exertion, Freddie looks around. He strides into the kitchen and pauses for a moment to catch his breath and gather his thoughts.

"Sam?" he calls out to the apartment. "Hey, Sam?"

He turns in a circle, observing the empty living room. His heart is beating hard, and a dozen of irrational situations fill his head; Sam leaving him; Sam coming to him with her secret Spanish lover Enrique; Sam leaving him for the maker of Fatty Cakes. (Sadly, the latter seems almost plausible.)

"Sam? Samantha!" He claps his hands in a random beat; it takes him a moment

"I'm getting _dressed_, Freddork," Sam answers after a moment. Her voice is distracted and faint, coming from their bedroom. She sounds snappish, which is unusual, as Freddie hasn't done anything she can pick at yet. "Keep your pants on!" she adds.

Freddie is too excited to pretend to take offense at the almost affectionate berating.

He kneels down and tugs open the freezer, digging around through frozen foods and treats. Shoving aside frozen peas, the only healthy and full bag in the freezer, Freddie stops the edge of his prize. He idly notes that he needs to go grocery shopping soon. He lets out a small, triumphant cry when he finds the Tupperware.

Freddie leaps to his feet, standing up and tearing the top off. He closes the freezer with his foot. Freddie throws the Fatty Cake away, but there is no velvet box inside. Confused, Freddie stares at it. After failing to propose last night, Freddie had waited until Sam had been preoccupied and had hidden the ring back in the freezer.

But it's not there now.

It's _not there_.

Trying to calm himself down, Freddie breathes in and out slowly through his nose. His mind is frantically racing, trying to figure out where the ring had gone. Maybe he is mistaken and had hidden it in another spot. He had been half-asleep and he had assumed in the morning he had put it in the freezer. Freddie all but flies to his hiding drawer, pulling it open so hard he almost pulls the drawer out. He scans the drawer desperately, but the contents have not changed.

Inside the drawer are old computer chips, a screwdriver, and a shiny disc. Freddie sighs heavily and leans heavily against the counter, mentally cursing. He doesn't worry about Sam approaching him. She takes forever to get ready, for all she renounces most girly habits.

Freddie runs a hand through his hair, wondering where on Earth he could have put the ring. He needs it; this is The Moment. The one he has been waiting for. Freddie can feel it. It's in the air, in his bones, and it's just _right_.

This is The Moment, and he can't find _the ring_.

But there is something scratching at the edge of his mind. Freddie waits and wipes his mind clean, waiting for it to hit him. Then it hits him: the drawer. Freddie faces the drawer again, staring at it. It's like the game he had played as a child. There had been two pictures, and slight differences between the two. You had to find the differences.

Freddie stares at the drawer, the pressure building until he can barely stand it. His whole future—his Sam—depends on him figuring out this riddle, this puzzle. Freddie barely restrains himself from punching the drawer in frustration. He's supposed to be smart; and he can't even remember the difference between a missing measly purple sticky note—Freddie stops.

Freddie looks; Freddie stares.

The ring is not there.

The purple sticky note is not there.

Instead, there is a crumb.

A familiar-looking crumb.

A crumb from a Fatty Cake.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Freddie Benson does not have an answer or explanation; that is when a serious voice says from the living room, "Benson, get your butt in here. _Now_." Freddie does as he's told, to numb to protest.


	14. Winning

**Note: **this chapter was tricky and definitely the hardest. I really hope no one's out of character and it lives up to expectations; feedback is greatly appreciated. There will be an epilogue.

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_Winning_

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Freddie walks into the living room and is greeted with the sight of Sam all gussied up. He actually stumbles, missing a step, he is so shocked. Sam has dressed up before, but after being bribed or threatened and Freddie had always expected it or received some warning.

Sam's hair curly and loose, complimenting her knitted black top in some way Freddie's male mind can't properly comprehend but can sure appreciate. She's wearing her red skinny jeans, Freddie's favorites, the ones she had worn on their first anniversary; the ones with the hole in the right knee and the frayed hems. It's an ode to her metabolism she still fits the jeans, with all she eats. But Freddie isn't thinking about what Sam eats. He's thinking about the slim back heels she's wearing, and the subtle makeup decorating her eyes, and the way her eyes seem to darken when he finally looks up from her body. Freddie's admiring what's his; he knows Sam's possessive of him too.

"S…Sam," he manages, voice strangled. He closes his eyes, because he has just noticed the hint of a dark pink strap through the knitting of her shirt, and he knows what that means.

And she_ should not be wearing that_, especially under normal clothes. She shouldn't be wearing it_ period. _Especially because Sam knows exactly _what _that article of clothing—if you could even call the scrap of cloth that—does to Freddie.

"Sam," he repeats, and his voice is steadier. "What's up?" he finishes lamely, remembering too late that he doesn't know why she has called him to the living room.

"Look at me Freddie," her voice is calm and collected, betraying none of frazzled irritation her tone had conveyed when she had first called him into the living room.

Freddie reluctantly opens one eye, and when Sam simply stands there, trying not to spook him, he opens the other. Sam stares at him for an eternity, something unreadable in her gaze that makes Freddie shiver, and not unpleasantly. He wonders why she has summoned him, why she's wearing such a tempting outfit, where his ring has gone, and if Sam would agree to marry him. Freddie's mind is exhausted, wondering so many things; the last of which has plagued him for weeks.

Sam opens her mouth—she's wearing _lip gloss _and Freddie's wondering what he's done to deserve such torture—and closes it. She does this a few times before blurting out, "I'll be back." Sam stretches a hand out in Freddie's direction, her pointer finger the only one lifted up, as she signals for him to 'stay' like a dog.

Freddie obeys, and tells himself it's only because Sam looks so good. It's not that he's whipped or anything. He's totally his own person. He doesn't have to listen to Sam (or so he tells himself).

Freddie folds and unfolds his hands. He crosses his legs and then props them up on the coffee table before just sitting normally. He scratches his head, idly wondering if he should change his shirt. It reeks of freshly made brownies and he wonders how Sam hasn't smelt it yet. He picks a brownie crumb out from underneath his thumbnail. He runs a hand through his hair and wonders if it's too long; he leans back against the couch and then sits up right, remembering his mother mentioning a long time ago that good posture inspires confidence in difficult situations.

This, now, is many things, but it is predominantly a difficult situation.

A minute passes and the suspense is killing Freddie. He passes the time trying to mentally recall where he put the ring. He knows he had hidden it somewhere good; he had been sure it had been in the kitchen. But the Tupperware had been empty, as had the drawer. The crumb doesn't mean anything, Freddie is sure. It's just him being a little too paranoid and observant. He imagines the ring, small and sweet and simple and Sam.

It's ridiculous, but Freddie has had this image in his head of his future: Sam and him, standing in front of a charming suburban house with a white picket fence, maybe with a dog or that weird chinchilla thing Sam wants, and a child shrieking with laughter in the background.

Freddie even has the dialogue worked out. "A picket for Puckett," he would say grandly, opening the gate to let Sam observe their future home. They would enter into the house and never truly leave it, until the day they grew old and eventually died.

Freddie sees how silly and childish that image is now. Sam doesn't want kids; or maybe she can't. Freddie's has never asked her, because asking those things would make Sam realize Freddie wanted _forever _and forever meant _commitment _and Sam would take off running that second she heard that.

Plus, once they got old enough, they would enter into a nursing home, not stay in the house. They would pass it on to their children…and Freddie runs into the same predicament. Forever means a lot of different things, things Sam might not be ready for and Freddie isn't going to pressure her into.

He's planning ahead, taking Sam for granted, and he wishes he could just know what she would say if he asked her to marry him right now.

Then Freddie remembers he can't find the ring and he sighs because The Moment is gone and he's never going to work up the never to ask Sam and they're going to be stuck just living together for the rest of their lives until Sam meets someone better and then Freddie will be the lone nerd again, dying alone with no one beside him—

Suddenly, something drops beside him on the couch.

Startled, Freddie looks to the side. There is a neon orange stuffed octopus, the one he had won at the fair for Sam, the one she had been carting around for the past few days without an explanation as to why by Freddie. But the octopus has a few odd accessories. It's covered in Fatty Cake crumbs, exactly like the one he had found in the drawer. The second and third accessories the octopus is modeling make Freddie pause and do a complete double take. His mouth drops open as he gapes, unbelieving.

Around one of the octopus' stuffed, furry orange tentacles, is a ring.

A very familiar, very out-of-place ring.

And attached to that ring, hanging off precariously, is a small, slightly crumpled sticky note that reads "Finders keepers, nub."

Freddie's eyes widened and he looks up at the person who had dropped the octopus next to him. She is standing in front of him, about a foot away, stiff and uncomfortable. She has never been adept at voicing or showing her emotions. Sam is avoiding his eyes, staring determinedly at a spot over his shoulder. She's trying not to let her nerves show, but she's wringing her hands together and biting her lip. They stay in this weird limbo for a few long, tense moments, before Sam finally blurts out, "I love you."

That's seven times, Freddie dumbly thinks, staring at Sam, able to do little else.

She sucks in a deep breath, apparently trying to gather her nerves, and soldiers on. "You matter to me. I may not show it a lot," she scrunches her nose up and forces out, "but I like you. A lot. And I like all of the stupid, kiddy stuff you do for me." A tiny, barely-there smile lights up her face. "Like winning me that octopus or taking me to late movies." Sam tries to smile but her trembling knocks it off her face. "I love you a lot, Freddie."

Eight, Freddie thinks, blinking rapidly, and she had called him by his nickname; that meant more than an 'I love you'; _way_ more.

"So I found this—this ring, sitting in that drawer, and…_Freddie_…" Sam finally looks at him and their eyes meet.

And it's too much, too much and too intense for Freddie to handle on top of everything else. He chickens out and looks down at the fuzzy carpet. Sam goes on, and Freddie is supremely glad he doesn't have to do the talking for once.

"I called Carls, and she told me everything," Sam's voice is bursting with emotion, "I didn't know you were going to do it at Burke's!" Freddie can tell without looking up at Sam is frustrated and confused and out of her mind with nervous excitement.

He tentatively allows himself to think that that is a good sign.

"You didn't hint or anything, Fredward." There is heavy regret in her voice, and he thinks that maybe that is a good sign also. "I thought it was just a normal date…and I'm sorry." The sincerity practically hangs in the air. There is no doubt that Sam isn't telling anything but the truth.

It is truly the best apology Freddie has ever gotten, and from Sam Puckett, of all people.

"I mean, I get it if you're mad at me. I'd be mad at me too." Sam adds and then rambles on, "But it's good this is out on the table. Now we can start planning…" and Sam goes on and on, and Freddie isn't paying attention; because while Sam hasn't outright said it, she has practically agreed to marry him. Freddie stares blankly at her as she goes on, not noticing his state. "…Carly's offered to help plan, oh, and Gibby is not going to be the singer at the reception. His shirt is also to remain on at all times, or else I'll…" Freddie stops paying attention; there are bigger things on his mind. Like:

_Sam _wants to _marry _him!

Freddie, however, needs to hear it. He has to hear it.

"You want to marry me?" he asks quietly, not daring to look up. There's fear in him, but a little bit of hope and a whole lot of anticipation with some nerves.

"I…" she breathes in deeply, and then spits it out in an overloud voice, announcing it to the world, so that he knows she means it, "I would really, _really _like to marry you."

Freddie finally looks her in the eye. She throws her head back defiantly. "So there. Nub," she adds for good measure.

Freddie just stares at her for a long, long time, until she starts to shift uncomfortably under his gaze. Then he abruptly covers the space between them in two, quick steps and wraps his arms around her. He buries his face in her thick, familiar blonde hair and feels her arms tentatively curl around him.

Her grip tightens when he says into her ear, "I would really, really like to marry you, too."

"I'm only marrying you for the money. How else am I supposed to get food?" Sam shoots back in true Samantha Puckett style, and Freddie isn't surprised at all. He doesn't care what Sam's reasons are for marrying him—well, that isn't true, but the point remains—just as long as she _marries _him.

"And I'm only marrying you because of my mom," Freddie says back, pulling back to look at Sam's face. He smirks and continues, "She can't take us 'living in sin' anymore."

Sam laughs, short and surprised and relieved and shaky, and it makes Freddie grin so hard his face hurts.

"I love you," Sam says, her eyes dancing and her smirk melting into something infinitely gentler, and more precious.

Freddie is floored. This is the first time she has said it straight to his face, her eyes trained firmly on his. It's also the ninth time.

"I love you," she repeats, pecking him on each of his cheeks, then his nose, then his forehead, and firmly just rests her head in the juncture between his chin and collarbone. She whispers it again and again and again until her voice becomes hoarse. She whispers it until Freddie looses count and they are even. Her breathing tickles Freddie's skin and their arms stay wrapped around each other until Freddie is sure they are bonded together, fused into one person.

Freddie smiles, radiating happiness, and closes his eyes. He basks in her presence, because Sam is his life, his love—and now, his wife; or soon-to-be wife. His fiancé! The word sends a thrill through him. It is both a mark of mutual ownership, being each other's spouses, and a promise. They are going to get married. Carly will be a bridesmaid. Spencer or Neville or even Shane will be the best man.

But Freddie doesn't care about that right now.

Freddie can hardly believe it. Sam is his. He is hers. They are going to be together forever. His arms tighten around her.

"I love you, too," he murmurs to her, "so, so much." He kisses the top of her head and wonders if he's going to explode from being this happy. It has to be illegal to be this jubilant.

"Commitment issues and all?" Sam mutters back sheepishly, her tone an apology once again. But there is a smug smirk playing around her lips as she peers up at him, challenge in her body language.

_I'll put up with you_, her posture seems to say, and Freddie knows because he is fluent in Sam-speak, _if you put up with me. _

Freddie grins down at her. "Commitment issues and all," he intones gravely, and feels like they are already married.

So he picks Sam up, bridal-style, and ignores her protests because his eyes are fastened on that pink strap barely peeking out from underneath her shirt; he carries her into their bedroom and she manages to elbow the door shut while saying that she doesn't want to be carried and that she doesn't approve of this.

Then Freddie kisses her and she shuts up, and the door closes all the way.

On the couch, an orange toy octopus sits with a ring on one of its tentacles. It wears a content, goofy grin and a ring that sparkles in the sunlight flooding through the window.


	15. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

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Ten Years Later...

"Mom!" I shouted. "MOM!"

There was a dim reply that came from the basement.

I took that was a response and continued, "I'm going across the street to hang out with PB. Don't worry—I'll be back for lunch!" Without waiting for my mom to approve, I called goodbye and walked out the front door. If mom needed me she'd call or come and get me; that was one of the perks of having your son's best friend live across the street.

I looked both ways, more out of habit than of obedience to my parents, and sprinted across the street. My neighborhood was quiet, most of the time. The houses were big and I guess pretty. Mom liked them. Dad loved the spacious yard; he spent a lot of time outside in it, sometimes making me join him. I hated yard work. It was almost as bad as schoolwork.

I paused in front of my best friend's house, staring. It was a big house with a huge yard, like all the other s in my neighborhood, but it had a huge white picket fence surrounding it. There weren't that many flowers, but it still looked good. There were toys strewn all about the front yard, reminding me of my house. With me and my three other brothers, we made a giant mess everywhere we went.

I pushed open the gate and ran forward, letting the gate slam shut behind me. I jumped over a fallen bike and narrowly missed slipping on an old rollerblade with ratty laces. There was a pile of hockey sticks and baseball bats I had to sidestep. For one kid, my best friend, PB, had a whole lot of stuff. She had a younger brother who was only six, but he spent most of his time playing video games. He was also insane about sharing, so all of his stuff and toys were neatly tucked away in the garage.

I guessed her little baby brother counted too. But he was one year old and he didn't know how to use all of the toys yet, let alone what they were. PB broke most of them after a while, so I didn't think there would be any left for the baby when he got older.

The front door was painted orange; mom insisted it was a "burnt red" but to me it just looked orange. I thought it looked nice. There weren't any other orange doors in my neighborhood. Since the houses were all vaguely the same, it helped me make sure that it was PB's house I was at. The orange door was a clear indicator. I knocked on it loudly in the tune of "Yankee Doodle" and then rang the doorbell twice for good measure.

I was impatient, something mom always scolded me for. But I was used to doing things suddenly and fast. I was best friends with PB for goodness sake! She was way more impatient and had a super short attention span. Before me, she'd grown through at least four other best friends. I was the only one she had kept around. I liked to think it was because she liked me best, but it was really because I was the only one who would put up with her.

PB meant well, but she got a little different at times—like intense, and someone people didn't know how to deal with it. PB's dad told me that how PB's mom was when she was younger. I hoped PB turned out like her mom. PB's mom was _pretty_; I know I was supposed to be terrified of cooties and stuff, but I was best friends with a girl; that defeated the whole purpose of avoiding girls because of cooties. I knew there wasn't such a thing. I wasn't stupid (even though PB told me I was all the time, but she didn't mean it; most of the time, anyway).

The door opened, revealing a tall—I was only nine, gimme a break, I hadn't hit my growth spurt yet—lady. Her hair was piled on top of her head, held back by what looked like pink chopsticks that had been mercilessly bedazzled (my old sneakers had also suffered during PB's bedazzle-obsession-phase). The lady was wearing a loose t-shirt with some heavy metal band logo on it, and red jeans.

However, it was the jerky in her hand that really caught my attention. It looked like a ham jerky, PB's favorite. PB had inherited a lot of things from her mom; I hadn't believed that PB's mom stole food from PB's dad's plate until I ate dinner with them a few times. PB's mom was slick about it, and sometime PB's dad didn't even notice. PB stole my food practically every lunch at school. She'd always snag my dessert or chips, and if mom made me a ham sandwich, it was as good as gone.

"Hey, Jimmy," PB's mom greeted me, her mouth full of ham jerky. She was smiling, her blue eyes exactly like PB's. "You looking for PB?"

"Yeah," I replied, and then remembered the manners mom had drilled into me for talking with adults. I reluctantly added, "Yes, Mrs. Puckett-Benson."

It was hard to remember to address PB's mom as 'Mrs. Puckett-Benson'. PB's mom was cool, for a mom. She watched recent movies and listened to recent music and knew how to operate all of the 'gadgets' we kids played with (mom called them 'gadgets', mostly because _she _had no clue how to make them work). PB's mom also called me Jimmy, my nickname. Most parents referred to me as James, which I thought was a stuffy, boring name. It was better than Marvin, which was what dad had wanted to name me.

"Okay," Mrs. Puckett-Benson leaned in the doorway and shouted, "PB! Get your butt down here, you gotta visitor!"

I nonchalantly rubbed my ear; PB's mom yelled loud; really, really loud. Loud enough that PB heard and a second later rushed down the stairs, coming to a stop in front of her mom and narrowly avoiding colliding with me. PB was taller than me by a few inches and beat me in our races, but I was catching up. PB's hair was a mix between her mom and dad, brown, curly, and long. She kept it in a ponytail most of the time. Her eyes were blue, just like her mom's, and she was bossy. But PB was the best and most fun friend I'd ever had, and her redeeming qualities made up for any snarky comments or mood swings.

I grinned at PB, glad to have another kid near me. Being alone with an adult was unsettling, and I always felt like they were going to scold me for something. PB's mom was way better than any another adult though. I felt like she would join in on a prank rather than send us to time-out.

"Hi," I said to PB, nodding my head and shoving my hands in my pockets. It was summer and hot, so I'd worn my khaki shorts. They were a little too short on me, falling a little bit above my knees, but it was so hot I'd risked PB making fun of me for comfort. I'd also gone with a summer camp T-shirt from last year. It was safe because there was nothing on it PB could joke about. I had learned the hard way with most of my wardrobe that PB could tease about almost anything.

"Hey," she responded easily, smirking at me. She was wearing basketball shorts with her standard scuffed chucks. Her shirt was some baseball team—playing clothes. It meant PB intended to spend the whole day outside and/or running around. I inwardly groan, glad I had come wearing clothes I could run around in. Keeping up with PB was exhausting.

PB stopped the ham jerky in her mom's hand. "Mom, you're eating my jerky!" she whined, tugging on her mom's shirt. With anyone else, PB would have just grabbed the jerky. But PB had learned all of her moves from Mrs. Puckett-Benson.

"My house, my jerky," Mrs. Puckett-Benson said simply, chomping on more jerky.

"Sam, the baby's sleeping but I can't find—" a man came around the corner and paused, stopping as he saw all three of us standing in the doorway. His glasses were sliding down the bridge of his nose, something new. I'd never seen PB's dad with glasses on before. He smiled at me as he walked over. "James, nice to see you," he said.

I inwardly winced at my 'proper' name. But I liked Mr. Puckett-Benson. He was pretty cool, although a little dorky. He was a really good fencing player and PB bragged about him all the time. She did fencing and made me do it too. It was a hard sport, and my respect for PB's dad had gone way up after the first class. "Hi, Mr. Puckett-Benson," I replied, grinning up at him.

"How are your parents?" Mr. Puckett-Benson asked, standing beside his wife. She was still eating the jerky, and didn't acknowledge his presence besides snagging his glasses and perching them on her own nose.

"They're good," I shrugged, wondering why adults always asked the most pointless questions. If PB's dad really wanted to know how my mom was, he could pick up a phone or just go across the street. And if she was sick, I would've told them first thing; but, then again—_adults_.

"You here to play with Charlie?" Mr. Puckett-Benson had barely finished his sentence before PB interrupted.

"_Dad_," she said in a supremely exasperated voice. "My _name _is _PB_, not _Charlie_." She scowled angrily up at her much taller dad, who held up his hands in a placating fashion.

"Don't blame me," he stated, nodding his head at Mrs. Puckett-Benson. "I'm not the one who named you after the creator of Fatty Cakes."

PB's mom rolled her eyes and swatted him with her half-eaten stick of jerky. "It was either that or let you name her _Elizabeth_," she said with disgust, taking another big bite of jerky.

"And what's so bad about Elizabeth? It's a traditional, strong name—"

"It's a pilgrim name, that's what it is. You know; the people who ate turkey and wore bonnets?"

"Like Charlie's any better. At least Elizabeth is a girl name."

"Charlie is a perfectly normal girl name."

"Oh yeah, just like Sam," Mr. Puckett-Benson said, and there was heavy sarcasm in his voice. PB and I had been watching her parents go back and forth. PB and I were used to it. Mr. and Mrs. Puckett-Benson were like this all of the time. My parents just smiled sickeningly sweet at each other and called each other embarrassing pet names. PB's 'bantered'; I didn't know what that meant. It was the word my mom used, and it fit since PB's parents didn't really argue. There was no real anger behind their fights.

"You think Sam is a boy's name?" Mrs. Puckett-Benson asked in a dangerous voice, her eyes narrowed. The jerky in her hand suddenly became threatening as she held it up like a ready-for-use weapon.

Mr. Puckett-Benson desperately tried to backtrack but it was too late.

PB and I sped away over her lawn as her mom began to repetitively smack her dad with ham jerky. I had grown used to Mr. and Mrs. Puckett-Benson. Observing them, I had discovered that while PB tried to act like her mom, her dad inevitably shone through. PB did incredibly well in school and was a genius with computers. She pretended not to care in class, but whenever she got in trouble it was out of class. I know PB paid attention in class; I also know she loved tech stuff.

PB had shown me this web show her parents had done when they were younger. Her dad had done all of the technical things, and PB had been talking lately of starting up a show of our own. I wasn't so sure; I liked making jokes and I was good with talking to people—my teacher called me a 'natural leader and smooth talker', but I thought she meant it in a bad-ish way; since I mostly used my talking skills to get PB and I out of trouble—but if it was just PB and me, it wouldn't be the same.

I thought we needed one more person, and PB reluctantly agreed because I wasn't doing the show without a third person. I was thinking about asking a girl named Gabby in our class to join us. She was nice and loved to dance. I also thought she was kind of pretty, but I wasn't going to tell PB that. PB hated talking girly stuff, and 'crushing' on someone apparently counted. I thought I might be crushing on PB, but since I couldn't talk about it, I decided I wasn't. She was my best friend. We would just see where we went once we got into middle school.

PB suddenly stopped, turning around and looking at me. She pulled a camera out of her pocket and I groaned. I hated posing for pictures. PB was set on getting the perfect one of us together, one that represented "our generation and the past one, united in two legacies". I thought it was just an excuse to torture me, but I went with it. PB pinched hard after all.

I smiled at the camera, pressing my head next to PB's as she held out the camera with her left arm. I knew without looking she was smirking. I rolled my eyes and the flash went off, blinding me momentarily. When I regained my sight, PB was staring at the back of the camera in fascination.

I walked up next to her, curious. "What's it look like?" I inquired, peering down at the tiny screen.

PB handed the camera to me. "It looks perfect," she announced, spinning around as I stared at the picture. "I cover both my mom and dad, while you cover your mom, but we're still both ourselves."

"What about my dad?" I muttered, but didn't bring it up. The picture was perfect, I admitted silently. PB was smirking, like her mom, but her eyes had a smile in them, like her dad's got when he was happy or looking at PB's mom. I was smiling, my eyebrows raised in that slightly sarcastic-challenging way I'd seen my mom do so many times. I blinked; unaware I looked so much like my mom. There was some of my dad in there, speckles of green in my hazel eyes and freckles dusting my nose, but I was mostly my mom's kid.

PB stopped in front of me. "What's up?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. "Your brain finally lost that last brain cell?"

I ignored her comment, instead saying, "I look exactly like my mom." I glanced up at PB, not sure what I was looking for in a reaction.

Sighing gustily, PB rolled her eyes at me and said like she was speaking to someone especially slow: "That's a good thing." She smirked smugly at me. "When we start _our _web show, everyone will know you're the son of Carly from iCarly! And then they'll see Sam and Freddie's kid, me, it'll be how we initially get attention," she said confidently.

I laughed, shaking my head at her. PB had a head full of big ideas.

"Now we have to go back to your tree house," PB ordered, hands on her hips and nose in the air, "because I left something there."

It was my turn to smirk. "You mean your stuffed animal?" I teased, because PB loathed everything girly, and yet treasured the worn orange octopus toy her parents had given her as a baby.

She slapped my shoulder, scowling angrily. "It is not!" She sputtered, looking for an excuse before blurting out, "It's a symbol of my parent's marriage and I'm just guarding it for them."

I might have fallen for that, had I not known PB any better. I grinned smugly at her and said, "Sure, Charlie." I then took off running, because if I didn't like to be called by my first name, PB _hated _it. I heard her yelling and following me, and ran faster. PB went psycho if any of the kids at school called her Charlie. PB had been kind of a bully, but since I'd become friends with her she hadn't done any bully things unless it was a defensive thing. No one liked to mess with PB. My mom told me that PB's mom used to do similar things when they were younger.

I still found it hard to imagine my mom and PB's parents as kids. Whenever I watched their web show, which it still up and running and very popular, it was stunning to see how little my mom was. It was also really funny to watch PB's parents, because even if they were older than me during the show, it was obvious they were crazy about each other.

PB suddenly caught up and grabbed my hand. I flinched, waiting for some punishment for calling her Charlie, but she simply used our joined hands to tug me forward, increasing our speed. The tree house was in sight as we ducked around my house. I briefly looked through the window and saw my mom in the kitchen, making her delicious brownies. Then PB tugged hard on my hand and we sprinted. We threw ourselves up the ladder, and I listened to PB as she described a tree house some guy named Fred had had once. I said it would take a lot of extension cord-things and she admitted it would.

She was saying we could outfit my tree house and make it our studio. She suggested my Uncle Spencer help us decorate and I disagreed. If Uncle Spencer decorated, it'd be one big explosion of colors and themes. We talked and talked about it. I reclined in a bean bag, while PB claimed the comfy couch, a ratty old octopus toy sitting next to her. I mentally made a note to win another one for her at the next fair, because the orange one looked like it had seen better days. I would have to be smooth about it, because PB loved that thing. Maybe if I said it was the octopus toy for the next generation…I mused and PB talked and life went on.

In my house, my mom was making brownies with music playing, while in a house across the street her best friends fought over a pair of glasses, swatting each other with ham jerky.

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_The End _

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**Author's Note: **I want to thank everyone for reading and sticking with this story; a special shout-out goes out to all reviewers, especially those who were there each chapter. This story wouldn't have been written so fast without all of the wonderful support from you guys. I hope you enjoyed this story—I enjoyed writing it—and that it lived up to Seddie in your eyes.

As for the epilogue, it's told by Carly's son. It might not be what some of you were expecting, but I thought it worked nicely. It was meant to show that Sam and Freddie matured and went on to get married and have children, all while keeping the things that make them themselves (like Sam's love of ham, for example). I also couldn't resist adding in a Seddie kid.

Thank you guys again for reading! :)


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